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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the plot of the story? </s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!

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

What happens to Betty throughout the story </s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!

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

What happens to Jeffers throughout the story </s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!

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

Describe the equipments used throughout the story </s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!

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

Describe the setting of the story </s> TOLLIVER'S ORBIT was slow—but it wasn't boring. And it would get you there—as long as you weren't going anywhere anyhow! By H. B. FYFE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way. I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me. The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant. Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates. You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded. Now, listen ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them. They know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side? Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly. You just don't listen to me , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit. Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers. Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount? Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye. All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now! You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter? Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls that hazardous duty! Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months. He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him. Looks like a little vacation , he thought, unperturbed. He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk. Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city. How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough. What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne? Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else. You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous. I'll be sorry later , he reflected, but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang. Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport. Missions! You call driving a mile or so a mission ? Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression. Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission! You can call me Betty. What happened to him? I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal. Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede! I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor. You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl. She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch. Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad! Say, that's pretty good! he told himself. What a liar you are,Tolliver! He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port. In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful. I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far. His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled. I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight ,he resolved. It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better. Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking. Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty. The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile. Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver? Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope. Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport. Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered. He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver. Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it. Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl. Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have some authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me. You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely. Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired! The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown. Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough. No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink! Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off. Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask. Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate. In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor. I told you no questions! bawled Jeffers. The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist. Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there. He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence. After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up. He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily. I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty. Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway. I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl. Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver. The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him. What can we use to get out of here? he mused. Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do? You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon? Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers. Tolliver groaned. Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it. Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident! What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause. Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing? The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet. There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records. Better than nothing at all, he muttered. He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter. What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern. This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet! He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers. You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself. I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl. No, I don't think you'd better. Why not? Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it. Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet? Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge. The plastic yielded. That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough! Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end. I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver. Why do you want them? Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through. After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself. That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off. Anybody might be listening! He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm. He caught up and touched helmets again. Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome. Where are you going? asked Betty. Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running everything ! Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help. How good? Pretty official, as a matter of fact. All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty. They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way. Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome. Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more. This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off. Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed. As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening. Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot. They'll find it, all right , Tolliver reminded himself. Don't be herewhen they do! He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock. It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her. Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it. By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned , he consoledhimself. It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after. They really sent her out to nail someone , Tolliver realized. Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed! We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed. Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater. Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel. Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately. He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status. This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that. The girl grinned. Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him? You ... you...? Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate— I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later. Oh, come on ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing? I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up. He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again. We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow. I didn't expect to so soon. Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede. Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am! Yes, admitted Tolliver, there are problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV. I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly. The main problem is whether you can cook. Betty frowned at him. I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry. Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do. I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck. Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo. After a while , he promised himself, I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the plot of the story? </s> THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive. Probably it was only an illusion. But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud. It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on Starship Jodrell Bank tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only see ! He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient. A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor. It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room? Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the Jodrell Bank , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational. How to explain a set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire? A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here? Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth. Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had. McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again. He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the Jodrell Bank withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship? He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the Jodrell Bank . He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain. McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for. It held a radio. He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the Jodrell Bank . No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling JodrellBank . Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please. But there was no answer. Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere. Of course, the thing might not be operating. He reached for the microphone again— He cried aloud. The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore. For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest. McCray could not see any part of his own body at all. II Someone else could. Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that may contain food. Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common. If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds. Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares. Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion. The probe team had had a shock. Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth. After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray. Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him. This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him. He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage. Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces. The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen. Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing. Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress? Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while. The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic. Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once. But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves. Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent. Yes, sir. But not in our way. But in a way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report. Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously. The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing. There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him. Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject. But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically. —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies now . Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day. He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies— Hatcher! The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded. Wait.... Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look! At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow. Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex? Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in. And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now. Killing him, Hatcher? Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once. III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration. The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit. Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself. God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss. McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange. And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed. A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from? He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know— McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is Jodrell Bank calling. Answer, please! I am answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long? Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray.... It kept on, and on. McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they had heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long.... Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three? Did that mean—did it possibly mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours to get a message to the ship and back? And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he? Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When Jodrell Bank , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position. If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act. McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help. He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next. He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm. Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again. Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out. He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears. He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up. Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down. McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium. All in all it was time for him to do something. Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft. McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven. Crash-clang! The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue. At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour? But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide. He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare. McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them. The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck. He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time. But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun. In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the Jodrell Bank —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard. The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along: Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank calling Herrell McCray.... And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear: Jodrell Bank! Where are you? Help! IV Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next? Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests. I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact. His assistant vibrated startlement. I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her. Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing: This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute. Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one? Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female— But? But I'm not sure that others can't. The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock. McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped. He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall. When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open. McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now. Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit— Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard. It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls. He knelt beside her and gently turned her face. She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese. She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her. He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in. His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;

Herrell McCray is a navigator on the Starship Jodrell Bank heading for the colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine when he is inexplicably abducted from his ship. He finds himself staring around a dark, silent room full of indeterminate objects. He believes he hears a faint voice in the distance, and suddenly a pinkish light illuminates his path of vision. He sees many familiar objects including a spacesuit, a child's rocking chair, a girl's bathing suit, and more; he wonders how he got there and why such objects are there with him. Three of the room's walls are made of a hard, organic compound, and from grates comprising the fourth wall pours a pungent air. As McCray's confidence returns, he wonders what happened to the Starship Jodrell Bank and begins to wonder if he is dead. When he remembers spacesuits come with radios, he tries contacting the ship to no avail and realizes he must be many lightyears away. Then, with sudden horror, he realizes that he cannot see his own body, and the room goes dark again. Outside the room, an alien named "Hatcher" runs a probe team tasked with observing McCray and running experiments on him in order to develop an understanding of the human species. Their "probes" are mandibles that can attach and detach from their round, jelly-like bodies and run errands and conduct scientific research. Hatcher makes his way to the supervising council of all probes to report the team's findings that McCray displayed "paranormal powers" when using his radio to establish contact with his ship. The council urges Hatcher to continue his studies with haste because a member of The Central Masses probe team has been captured by the Old Ones, an ancient species hostile to Hatcher's people. His team must put McCray through a series of tests in order to help them potentially discover a way to defend themselves against the Old Ones. As Hatcher considers the best way to establish communication with McCray without causing him harm, his assistant alerts him to the presence of a female human on the viewing console. Hatcher orders the assistant to bring her in as they may need another human in case McCray dies. Hours after his initial transmission was sent to the ship, McCray receives a response from the ship. He dispatches another transmission and begins to notice the room getting hotter as the air grows more toxic. Hatcher has started the survival portion of the test. McCray uses an ax to break his way out of the room and enters another dark room full of desks he assumes are some kind of workspaces for his captors. Suddenly, he hears a woman's voice crying out for the Jodrell Bank and makes his way toward her. Hatcher and his assistant discuss whether to abandon McCray and focus on the female since she appears to be more susceptible to communication, but they ultimately decide against it. McCray eventually finds the woman through a series of doors and hallways.

What is the setting of the story? </s> THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive. Probably it was only an illusion. But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud. It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on Starship Jodrell Bank tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only see ! He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient. A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor. It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room? Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the Jodrell Bank , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational. How to explain a set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire? A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here? Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth. Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had. McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again. He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the Jodrell Bank withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship? He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the Jodrell Bank . He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain. McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for. It held a radio. He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the Jodrell Bank . No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling JodrellBank . Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please. But there was no answer. Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere. Of course, the thing might not be operating. He reached for the microphone again— He cried aloud. The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore. For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest. McCray could not see any part of his own body at all. II Someone else could. Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that may contain food. Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common. If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds. Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares. Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion. The probe team had had a shock. Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth. After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray. Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him. This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him. He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage. Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces. The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen. Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing. Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress? Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while. The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic. Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once. But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves. Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent. Yes, sir. But not in our way. But in a way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report. Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously. The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing. There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him. Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject. But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically. —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies now . Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day. He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies— Hatcher! The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded. Wait.... Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look! At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow. Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex? Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in. And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now. Killing him, Hatcher? Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once. III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration. The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit. Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself. God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss. McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange. And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed. A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from? He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know— McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is Jodrell Bank calling. Answer, please! I am answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long? Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray.... It kept on, and on. McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they had heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long.... Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three? Did that mean—did it possibly mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours to get a message to the ship and back? And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he? Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When Jodrell Bank , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position. If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act. McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help. He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next. He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm. Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again. Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out. He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears. He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up. Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down. McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium. All in all it was time for him to do something. Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft. McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven. Crash-clang! The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue. At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour? But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide. He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare. McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them. The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck. He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time. But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun. In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the Jodrell Bank —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard. The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along: Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank calling Herrell McCray.... And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear: Jodrell Bank! Where are you? Help! IV Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next? Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests. I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact. His assistant vibrated startlement. I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her. Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing: This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute. Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one? Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female— But? But I'm not sure that others can't. The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock. McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped. He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall. When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open. McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now. Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit— Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard. It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls. He knelt beside her and gently turned her face. She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese. She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her. He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in. His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;

The story begins sometime during the Starship Jodrell Bank's Long Jump from Earth to the colonies surrounding Betegeuses Nine as it passes by Betelgeuse, Rigel, and Saiph. The rest of the action takes place in an unknown area of space within a "great buried structure" that is a massive labyrinth of dark rooms and hallways with unusual doors that seem to shift and change after passing through them. This is where Hatcher and his probe team observe McCray in his enclosure, which is no bigger than a prison cell, dark, and full of vaguely familiar objects: a spacesuit, a child's rocking chair, a chemistry set, a girl's bathing suit, an ax. Three of the walls are made of a hard, organic compound and the fourth is covered in grates from which a halogen-smelling air pours out into the room. Although everything is dark, Hatcher occasionally triggers a pinkish, halo-like light that allows McCray to examine his surroundings. Elsewhere in the structure is a place where the supervising council of all probes stays in permanent session, monitoring the work of all probe teams including the team at The Central Masses. When McCray breaks out of his initial enclosure, he finds himself in another dark room, large and bare. Using the beam from his suit lamp, he sees shelves, cupboard-like contraptions, and level surfaces that appeared to be waist-high workbenches attached to the walls and ceiling. He finds a gun on one of the benches. After finding the gun, he realizes the door he came through is gone; instead, there is an uneven, three-sided door he enters to find the unconscious woman on the other side.

Who is Hatcher and what is his role in the story? </s> THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive. Probably it was only an illusion. But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud. It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on Starship Jodrell Bank tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only see ! He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient. A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor. It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room? Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the Jodrell Bank , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational. How to explain a set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire? A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here? Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth. Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had. McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again. He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the Jodrell Bank withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship? He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the Jodrell Bank . He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain. McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for. It held a radio. He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the Jodrell Bank . No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling JodrellBank . Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please. But there was no answer. Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere. Of course, the thing might not be operating. He reached for the microphone again— He cried aloud. The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore. For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest. McCray could not see any part of his own body at all. II Someone else could. Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that may contain food. Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common. If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds. Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares. Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion. The probe team had had a shock. Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth. After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray. Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him. This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him. He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage. Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces. The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen. Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing. Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress? Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while. The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic. Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once. But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves. Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent. Yes, sir. But not in our way. But in a way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report. Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously. The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing. There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him. Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject. But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically. —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies now . Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day. He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies— Hatcher! The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded. Wait.... Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look! At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow. Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex? Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in. And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now. Killing him, Hatcher? Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once. III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration. The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit. Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself. God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss. McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange. And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed. A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from? He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know— McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is Jodrell Bank calling. Answer, please! I am answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long? Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray.... It kept on, and on. McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they had heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long.... Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three? Did that mean—did it possibly mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours to get a message to the ship and back? And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he? Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When Jodrell Bank , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position. If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act. McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help. He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next. He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm. Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again. Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out. He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears. He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up. Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down. McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium. All in all it was time for him to do something. Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft. McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven. Crash-clang! The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue. At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour? But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide. He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare. McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them. The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck. He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time. But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun. In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the Jodrell Bank —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard. The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along: Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank calling Herrell McCray.... And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear: Jodrell Bank! Where are you? Help! IV Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next? Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests. I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact. His assistant vibrated startlement. I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her. Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing: This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute. Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one? Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female— But? But I'm not sure that others can't. The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock. McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped. He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall. When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open. McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now. Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit— Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard. It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls. He knelt beside her and gently turned her face. She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese. She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her. He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in. His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;

Hatcher is an alien of an unnamed race. He cannot be described as male because his race "had no true males." He is three feet tall with a hard-shelled, circular body of jelly. His arms and legs are snakelike mandibles that can detach from his body, and he can control them with his brain from vast distances, although their effectiveness diminishes the further they travel from Hatcher's body. When they return to Hatcher's body, they rest in crevices in his skin. When he feeds, a slit appears at the bottom of his body and emits a thin, fetid fluid Hatcher throws away; he then places a nutrient-filled, kelp-like vegetable in the slit for sustenance. Hatcher is young, adventurous, scientifically gifted, knowledgeable, and enjoys playing sports. Although he does not feel the equivalent of human empathy, he also doesn't want harm to befall McCray and feels responsible for his proper care. Hatcher manages the probe team that observes McCray throughout the story, and he reports on McCray's behavior and his use of "paranormal powers" to the supervising council. Hatcher worries about hurrying to establish communication with McCray because he believes it will harm and perhaps even kill him, and later he wonders if communication is even possible at all with humans (later, he notes he is able to establish a minor level of communication with the female but wonders if others might be able to communicate with her). When Hatcher makes his report to the supervising council, they inform him of the return of the Old Ones, who have captured a member of The Central Masses Probe Team. He questions whether or not to tell his crew considering he was never explicitly told not to by the council. In many ways, Hatcher and McCray are similar although Hatcher is generally disgusted by the human body.

What is the significance of the probes in the story? </s> THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive. Probably it was only an illusion. But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud. It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on Starship Jodrell Bank tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only see ! He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient. A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor. It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room? Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the Jodrell Bank , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational. How to explain a set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire? A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here? Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth. Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had. McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again. He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the Jodrell Bank withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship? He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the Jodrell Bank . He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain. McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for. It held a radio. He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the Jodrell Bank . No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling JodrellBank . Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please. But there was no answer. Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere. Of course, the thing might not be operating. He reached for the microphone again— He cried aloud. The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore. For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest. McCray could not see any part of his own body at all. II Someone else could. Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that may contain food. Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common. If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds. Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares. Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion. The probe team had had a shock. Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth. After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray. Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him. This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him. He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage. Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces. The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen. Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing. Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress? Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while. The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic. Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once. But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves. Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent. Yes, sir. But not in our way. But in a way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report. Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously. The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing. There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him. Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject. But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically. —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies now . Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day. He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies— Hatcher! The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded. Wait.... Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look! At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow. Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex? Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in. And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now. Killing him, Hatcher? Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once. III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration. The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit. Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself. God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss. McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange. And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed. A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from? He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know— McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is Jodrell Bank calling. Answer, please! I am answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long? Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray.... It kept on, and on. McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they had heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long.... Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three? Did that mean—did it possibly mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours to get a message to the ship and back? And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he? Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When Jodrell Bank , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position. If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act. McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help. He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next. He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm. Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again. Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out. He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears. He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up. Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down. McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium. All in all it was time for him to do something. Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft. McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven. Crash-clang! The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue. At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour? But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide. He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare. McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them. The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck. He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time. But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun. In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the Jodrell Bank —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard. The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along: Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank calling Herrell McCray.... And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear: Jodrell Bank! Where are you? Help! IV Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next? Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests. I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact. His assistant vibrated startlement. I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her. Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing: This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute. Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one? Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female— But? But I'm not sure that others can't. The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock. McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped. He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall. When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open. McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now. Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit— Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard. It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls. He knelt beside her and gently turned her face. She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese. She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her. He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in. His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;

Physically speaking, the probes refer to the snakelike mandibles that form the arms and legs of the alien race to which Hatcher belongs. These mandibles are able to detach themselves and travel vast distances away from the body, conducting experiments and running errands controlled remotely by the brain. When they return to the body, they settle into little grooves formed in the skin at the base of the globular host body. Hatcher manages the probe team responsible for observing McCray and running him through a series of tests. The supervising council oversees operations of all the various Probe Teams throughout the universe; the ultimate goal of all Probe Teams is to discover a way in which to defend their race against the hostile Old Ones who have recently resurfaced and captured a team member from The Central Masses Probe Team.

Who is Herrell McCray and what happens to him in the story? </s> THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION BY FREDERICK POHL Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared. As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened. The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit. McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out. Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence. Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive. Probably it was only an illusion. But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud. It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on Starship Jodrell Bank tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only see ! He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient. A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor. It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room? Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the Jodrell Bank , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational. How to explain a set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire? A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here? Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth. Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had. McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again. He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the Jodrell Bank withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship? He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the Jodrell Bank . He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain. McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for. It held a radio. He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the Jodrell Bank . No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling JodrellBank . Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please. But there was no answer. Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere. Of course, the thing might not be operating. He reached for the microphone again— He cried aloud. The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore. For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest. McCray could not see any part of his own body at all. II Someone else could. Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that may contain food. Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common. If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds. Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares. Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion. The probe team had had a shock. Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth. After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray. Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once. Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report: The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him. This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him. He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage. Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces. The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen. Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing. Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress? Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while. The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic. Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back. Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once. But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like, we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We can't go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves. Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent. Yes, sir. But not in our way. But in a way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report. Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously. The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing. There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him. Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject. But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically. —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies now . Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day. He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies— Hatcher! The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded. Wait.... Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look! At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow. Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex? Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in. And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now. Killing him, Hatcher? Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once. III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration. The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit. Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself. God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss. McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange. And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed. A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from? He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know— McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is Jodrell Bank calling. Answer, please! I am answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long? Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray.... It kept on, and on. McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they had heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long.... Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three? Did that mean—did it possibly mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours to get a message to the ship and back? And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he? Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When Jodrell Bank , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position. If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act. McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help. He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next. He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm. Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again. Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out. He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears. He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up. Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down. McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium. All in all it was time for him to do something. Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft. McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven. Crash-clang! The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue. At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour? But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide. He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare. McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them. The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck. He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time. But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun. In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the Jodrell Bank —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard. The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along: Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank calling Herrell McCray.... And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear: Jodrell Bank! Where are you? Help! IV Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next? Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests. I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact. His assistant vibrated startlement. I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her. Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing: This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute. Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one? Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female— But? But I'm not sure that others can't. The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock. McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped. He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall. When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open. McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now. Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit— Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard. It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls. He knelt beside her and gently turned her face. She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese. She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her. He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in. His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;

Herrell McCray is the navigator for the Starship Jodrell Bank whose mission is to reach the colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. He is young, adventurous, gifted in science and technology, and enjoys playing baseball, poker, and 3D chess. When McCray finds himself inexplicably abducted and transported to a dark room in an unknown location, he is confused about how he ended up in that location and why he is surrounded by items that vaguely remind him of his childhood. He is grateful when a pinkish light offers some illumination, and he attempts to contact his ship using the radio on a spacesuit he finds in the room. Before the light goes out, he panics when he is not able to see any part of his body; he later realizes this was a trick of the light. McCray continues to attempt to make contact with the ship and hours go by before he receives a reply, which makes him realize he is possibly millions of lightyears away from it. As McCray realizes his room is slowly filling with toxic fumes, he uses an ax he finds to break free and tries to find a way to escape his unknown prison. As he navigates the unusual building, he finds a gun and eventually hears a transmission from an unknown woman who is also calling out for the ship. He makes his way through bizarre doors until he finds her face down on the ground.

What is the plot of the story? </s> A Gleeb for Earth By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Not to be or not to not be ... that was the not-question for the invader of the not-world. Dear Editor: My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us? I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then. What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning. Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about. Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him. In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame! What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere. My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin. Yours very truly, Ivan Smernda Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn Wichita, Kansas June 13 Dear Joe: Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth. Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left. I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born. When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech. Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world. Poppa, I said. This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom. They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct thump on the floor. This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone. From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have. New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations? Glmpauszn Albuquerque, New Mexico June 15 Dear Joe: I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here. As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people. Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit. I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty. Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do. This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped. The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said. A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her. Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area. But— No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him. That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn Des Moines, Iowa June 19 Dear Joe: Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you. Glmpauszn Boise, Idaho July 15 Dear Joe: A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now. You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle. This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have. I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours. Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it. Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now. Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry. Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming. By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh? I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say. Glmpauszn Penobscot, Maine July 20 Dear Joe: Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations. I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love. I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly. Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love. I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left. I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture. I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately. Glmpauszn Sacramento, Calif. July 25 Dear Joe: All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings. Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately. The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world. The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice. Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light. Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice. Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down. Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn Florence, Italy September 10 Dear Joe: This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds. I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities. I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer. But why, sir? he asked plaintively. I was baffled. What could I tell him? Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good? It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're— They're what? he wanted to know. They're not safe. Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is.... At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol. See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up! He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them. Glmpauszn Rochester, New York September 25 Dear Joe: I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal. First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing. We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators. You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live. In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe? And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla! Glmpauszn Dear Editor: These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?

A Gleeb for Earth is a collection of letters, signed by two characters - Ivan Smernda (a human on Earth who owns the Plaza Ritz Arms hotel in New York City) and Glmpauszn (an alien from a world that is entwined with Earth through a spiritual fringe). Ivan dictates the first letter through his son Ronnie (14 years old) and sends it to the Editor of a print publication, feeling responsible for publicizing what he witnessed to save humanity. Ivan recounts an occurrence in the Plaza Ritz Arms where two alcoholic guests that he calls “stew bums”, Joe Binkle and Ed Smith (an alias for Glmpauszn), mysteriously disappeared, leaving their suits behind as if they had melted out of them. Ed had checked in with a mirror with a heavy bronze frame. After their disappearance, Ivan found only their clothes, the frame of the mirror in Ed’s room, and a stack of letters in the bureau in Joe’s room, which are the letters that tell the remaining story.The vibrational plane of an alien world extends into Earth’s (which they call the not-world), allowing intrusive vibrations from Earth to semi-terrorize sentient alien vibrations. Human spiritual mediums can force psychic reproductions of themselves into the alien world, and conversely pull alien vibrations over the “fringe”. The aliens can’t tolerate it, and send Glmpauszn and Joe to take on human form and develop a chemical weapon to kill all humans.Glmpauszn crosses the fringe through a vibrational gateway that allows his consciousness to move into a newborn baby. Joe has already arrived in human form. Glmpauszn quickly grows the baby into an adult man. At three days old, he is 36 inches tall and talking, and a couple of days later is an adult man. Glmpauszn writes to Joe by controlling the minds of sleeping people around the world to pen the letters and then mail them to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City. He wonders why Joe won’t write to him, and can’t contact him spiritually, like normal, since Joe has fallen into alcoholism. Glmpauszn forgets to wear clothes and is nearly arrested, but escapes by becoming invisible. When Joe finally writes, it is to ask for money, enraging Glmpauszn who reports Joe’s actions to their boss, Blgftury. Glmpauszn becomes distracted by exploring human emotions like intimacy with women and love of money, which causes him to rob a bank and fill 18 rooms of a hotel with money. He also falls into alcoholism. Blgftury is accidentally summoned into a seance by a human medium who pulls Blgftury’s vibrations through the fringe (the very thing they are trying to stop from happening), and Glmpauszn is caught with a red-haired woman by his boss not doing his job. Glmpauszn finally develops a mold that can kill humans, and meets with Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms with lots of gin that they consume before successfully returning to the vibrational frequency of their world, releasing the mold in the room.

Describe the setting of the story. </s> A Gleeb for Earth By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Not to be or not to not be ... that was the not-question for the invader of the not-world. Dear Editor: My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us? I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then. What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning. Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about. Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him. In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame! What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere. My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin. Yours very truly, Ivan Smernda Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn Wichita, Kansas June 13 Dear Joe: Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth. Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left. I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born. When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech. Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world. Poppa, I said. This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom. They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct thump on the floor. This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone. From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have. New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations? Glmpauszn Albuquerque, New Mexico June 15 Dear Joe: I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here. As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people. Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit. I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty. Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do. This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped. The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said. A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her. Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area. But— No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him. That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn Des Moines, Iowa June 19 Dear Joe: Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you. Glmpauszn Boise, Idaho July 15 Dear Joe: A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now. You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle. This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have. I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours. Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it. Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now. Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry. Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming. By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh? I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say. Glmpauszn Penobscot, Maine July 20 Dear Joe: Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations. I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love. I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly. Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love. I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left. I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture. I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately. Glmpauszn Sacramento, Calif. July 25 Dear Joe: All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings. Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately. The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world. The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice. Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light. Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice. Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down. Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn Florence, Italy September 10 Dear Joe: This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds. I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities. I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer. But why, sir? he asked plaintively. I was baffled. What could I tell him? Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good? It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're— They're what? he wanted to know. They're not safe. Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is.... At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol. See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up! He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them. Glmpauszn Rochester, New York September 25 Dear Joe: I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal. First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing. We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators. You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live. In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe? And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla! Glmpauszn Dear Editor: These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?

A Gleeb for Earth takes place on Earth, where the spiritual vibrations of human mediums and psychics are intruding upon and semi-terrorizing another world populated by sentient vibrational beings. The vibrational plane of the alien world extends just a tiny bit into Earth (referred to as the not-world by the aliens), and the fringe between the two allows for human psychics to intrude into the alien’s realm, or for human seance practises to summon alien vibrations on Earth in ways that are terrifying for the aliens. The aliens can’t tolerate these vibrational intrusions any longer and have embarked on a mission to destroy all life on Earth by having two of their own take the form of humans and develop a chemical weapon (a mold) to wipe them out.The mission of Glmpauszn and Joe takes place on Earth between June 8th and September 25th of an unknown year. Glmpauszn mails letters from various international locations to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City by controlling the minds of unknown sleeping humans to pen what he spiritually dictates, and mail the letters without ever knowing they have done it. Glmpauszn’s physical location is not explicitly discussed, but it is possibly nearby to New York City since he does not mention the need for any long-distance or international travel in his letters. Both Glmpauszn and Joe become distracted from their mission at times by drugs, alcohol, stealing money using their invisibility, and the sensations of experiencing human emotions like love.The Plaza Ritz Arms hotel in New York City is an especially important location in the story, because it is the final meeting place where Glmpauszn and Joe return to their vibrational realm through a mirror with a heavy bronze frame, leaving their clothes in heaps as if they had melted out of them, only the frame of the mirror, and the pile of letters from Glmpauszn to Joe that detail their entire mission on Earth.

Why does Glmpauszn want to take the form of a person on Earth? </s> A Gleeb for Earth By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Not to be or not to not be ... that was the not-question for the invader of the not-world. Dear Editor: My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us? I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then. What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning. Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about. Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him. In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame! What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere. My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin. Yours very truly, Ivan Smernda Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn Wichita, Kansas June 13 Dear Joe: Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth. Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left. I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born. When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech. Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world. Poppa, I said. This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom. They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct thump on the floor. This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone. From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have. New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations? Glmpauszn Albuquerque, New Mexico June 15 Dear Joe: I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here. As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people. Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit. I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty. Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do. This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped. The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said. A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her. Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area. But— No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him. That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn Des Moines, Iowa June 19 Dear Joe: Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you. Glmpauszn Boise, Idaho July 15 Dear Joe: A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now. You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle. This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have. I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours. Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it. Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now. Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry. Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming. By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh? I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say. Glmpauszn Penobscot, Maine July 20 Dear Joe: Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations. I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love. I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly. Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love. I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left. I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture. I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately. Glmpauszn Sacramento, Calif. July 25 Dear Joe: All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings. Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately. The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world. The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice. Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light. Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice. Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down. Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn Florence, Italy September 10 Dear Joe: This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds. I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities. I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer. But why, sir? he asked plaintively. I was baffled. What could I tell him? Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good? It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're— They're what? he wanted to know. They're not safe. Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is.... At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol. See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up! He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them. Glmpauszn Rochester, New York September 25 Dear Joe: I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal. First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing. We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators. You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live. In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe? And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla! Glmpauszn Dear Editor: These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?

Glmpauszn’s consciousness takes the form of spiritual vibrations that can cross from his world into Earth’s, allowing him to take control of humans on Earth and even insert his consciousness into a human fetus. He describes Earth as a “weird extension of the Universe”, because from his perspective the vibrational plane of his world extends just a tiny bit into Earth (which he calls the not-world). This is unacceptable to his people since human spiritual mediums on Earth have been able to force psychic reproductions of themselves into his world, and conversely temporarily kidnap some individuals from his planet over the “fringe” between the two worlds, frightening them. The intrusive vibrations from Earth have semi-terrorized the sentient vibrations that make up the population of Glmpauszn’s world. Thus, Glmpauszn will now take on the form of a human on Earth and destroy the entirety of human existence to stop their intrusions.

What is the relationship like between Glmpauszn and Joe? </s> A Gleeb for Earth By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Not to be or not to not be ... that was the not-question for the invader of the not-world. Dear Editor: My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us? I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then. What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning. Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about. Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him. In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame! What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere. My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin. Yours very truly, Ivan Smernda Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn Wichita, Kansas June 13 Dear Joe: Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth. Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left. I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born. When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech. Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world. Poppa, I said. This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom. They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct thump on the floor. This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone. From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have. New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations? Glmpauszn Albuquerque, New Mexico June 15 Dear Joe: I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here. As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people. Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit. I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty. Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do. This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped. The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said. A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her. Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area. But— No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him. That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn Des Moines, Iowa June 19 Dear Joe: Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you. Glmpauszn Boise, Idaho July 15 Dear Joe: A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now. You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle. This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have. I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours. Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it. Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now. Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry. Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming. By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh? I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say. Glmpauszn Penobscot, Maine July 20 Dear Joe: Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations. I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love. I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly. Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love. I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left. I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture. I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately. Glmpauszn Sacramento, Calif. July 25 Dear Joe: All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings. Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately. The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world. The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice. Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light. Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice. Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down. Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn Florence, Italy September 10 Dear Joe: This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds. I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities. I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer. But why, sir? he asked plaintively. I was baffled. What could I tell him? Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good? It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're— They're what? he wanted to know. They're not safe. Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is.... At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol. See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up! He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them. Glmpauszn Rochester, New York September 25 Dear Joe: I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal. First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing. We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators. You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live. In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe? And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla! Glmpauszn Dear Editor: These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?

Glmpauszn is a sentient being from an alien world that takes the form of spiritual vibrations that are capable of controlling humans on Earth (which he refers to as the non-world), or entering the body of a human to take their form. He travels through a gateway (a vibrational point that alters the frequency of those who enter in the form of a mirror with a heavy bronze frame), allowing Glmpauszn to take on the frequency of a human and move his consciousness into a newborn baby. Once on Earth in newborn form, Glmpauszn quickly grows the body of the newborn baby into that of an adult man over a matter of days, and begins using the alias Ed Smith. He writes to Joe by vibrationaly controlling the minds of a variety of literate people around the world to pen the letters and then mail them to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City. The people he uses the mind of never become aware that they have written or mailed the letters.Joe (an alias name) is of the same world as Glmpauszn, and they are on a mission together to destroy all human life on Earth in order to stop the intrusive vibrations of Earth polluting their spiritually sentient world. There is a rocky start to their mission as Glmpauszn is not receiving any contact back from Joe who has become distracted by drugs and alcohol in his human form on Earth. Normally, Glmpauszn would be able to reach Joe through spiritual vibrations instead of letters, but Joe’s vibrations are very weak due to the substances he takes. Joe eventually does write to Glmpauszn, but only to ask for money, which greatly offends Glmpauszn who becomes furious with him for abandoning their mission. However, their relationship changes as Glmpauszn begins to experiment with the feelings of being human, and tries to feel love and consume alcohol. Glmpauszn starts to relate to Joe’s experience with alcohol, and they even decide to bring lots of gin to consume when they finally meet at the Plaza Ritz Arms to re-enter the gateway to their own world together after releasing the deadly mold that will kill all humans on Earth and complete their mission. They finish the mission triumphantly together, with Glmpauszn referring to them together in one of his final letters as conquerors and liberators for their world.

Who is Blgftury and what happens to them in the story? </s> A Gleeb for Earth By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Not to be or not to not be ... that was the not-question for the invader of the not-world. Dear Editor: My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us? I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then. What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning. Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about. Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him. In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame! What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere. My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin. Yours very truly, Ivan Smernda Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn Wichita, Kansas June 13 Dear Joe: Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth. Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left. I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born. When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech. Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world. Poppa, I said. This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom. They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct thump on the floor. This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings! I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone. From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have. New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations? Glmpauszn Albuquerque, New Mexico June 15 Dear Joe: I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done. My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent. In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here. As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people. Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit. I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty. Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do. This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped. The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were. I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened. He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said. A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her. Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area. But— No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him. That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment. Glmpauszn Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn Des Moines, Iowa June 19 Dear Joe: Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you. Glmpauszn Boise, Idaho July 15 Dear Joe: A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now. You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to. Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle. This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have. I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours. Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it. Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now. Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry. Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming. By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh? I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say. Glmpauszn Penobscot, Maine July 20 Dear Joe: Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations. I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love. I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly. Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love. I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left. I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture. I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately. Glmpauszn Sacramento, Calif. July 25 Dear Joe: All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings. Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately. The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world. The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice. Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light. Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice. Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down. Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn Florence, Italy September 10 Dear Joe: This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds. I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities. I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer. But why, sir? he asked plaintively. I was baffled. What could I tell him? Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good? It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're— They're what? he wanted to know. They're not safe. Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is.... At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol. See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up! He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them. Glmpauszn Rochester, New York September 25 Dear Joe: I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal. First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing. We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators. You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live. In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe? And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla! Glmpauszn Dear Editor: These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?

Blgftury is an alien of the same world as Glmpauszn and Joe, which is being semi-terrorized by intrusive vibrations from Earth (which they refer to as non-world) that pollute their world’s sentient frequency. Their world wishes to destroy all human life on Earth to become free from these intrusions. Blgftury is the boss of the other two, and Glmpauszn often refers to having to write reports for him begrudgingly to update on the status of the mission.Blgftury is not a supportive boss, because he wished to go on this mission himself. Glmpauszn describes that Blgftury gave him little praise, and even wrote thinly-veiled threats, in his response to Glmpauszn’s report on how he escaped the pursuit of the police when he was caught naked in public after forgetting humans need to put on clothes. Blgftury has the authority to take corrective action related to the mission, evidenced by how Glmpauszn doesn’t hesitate to forward him the letters from Joe that he finds offensive about asking for money and discussing “revolting bodily processes.” Blgftury has to pester Glmpauszn for reports when he begins to go off the plan and experiment with human feelings like falling in love and alcohol. Glmpauszn does finally successfully develop a mold that will kill all humans on Earth and sends detailed chemistry reports back to Blgftury on the subject. Blgftury spends a lot of time sending vibrations in the fringe area between Earth and their world, and by accident his vibrations are summoned by a spiritual medium into a white, shapeless cascade of light at a human seance gathering that Glmpauszn happens to be attending on Earth where he is fooling around with a red-headed woman in the corner of the room (flagrantly not doing the work of the mission) in full visibility to Blgftury. Blgftury responded with a pattern in his matrix that showed pain, anger, fear and amazement. Glmpauszn goes on to complete the mission and return with Joe to their home world without further interaction with Blgftury.

What is the plot of the story? </s> The Haunted Fountain id=chap01> CHAPTER I An Unsolved Mystery “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.” Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.” “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.” “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—” “Judy Dobbs, remember?” “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—” “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.” “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.” “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.” “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.” “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?” “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.” “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.” “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?” “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.” Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the FarringdonDaily Herald . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow. Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do? “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.” “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—” Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her. “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?” “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—” “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.” Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the GhostParade . “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.” But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain. “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud. Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces. “That tease!” For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!” Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried. “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—” A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Were they?” asked Lois. She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption. “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.” And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool. “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?” A voice had answered, although she could see noone. “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.” “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.” “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated. “But what is there to cry about?” “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?” “Then you—you are the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.” “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper. id=chap02> CHAPTER II If Wishes Came True “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?” “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.” First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway. “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister, and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.” “But what were they?” Lois insisted. Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.” “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked. “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—” “And your wishes all came true!” “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.” “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?” “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.” “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?” Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.” “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?” “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?” “All the year around?” Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.” “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.” “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her. “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?” “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.” “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.” “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.” “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.” “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.” Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it. “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided. Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream. “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.” “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle. Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it. “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above. “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends. “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs. “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?” “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?” The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain. “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.” “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?” “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.” “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—” “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked. Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.” “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?” “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to. “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?” “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?” “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.” “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.” “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.” “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?” “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested. id=chap03> CHAPTER III A Strange Encounter Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain. “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. “You’ll remember it, won’t you?” Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly. “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving. It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it. “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.” “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—” Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.” “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in. “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.” “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.” “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.” “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate. “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.” As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair. “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?” “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.” “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly. She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling. Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind. “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?” “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.” “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.” “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.” “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—” “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.” “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.” “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.” “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.” “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.” “For what?” asked Judy. Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip. “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her. Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime. “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?” “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained. “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine. “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling. Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?” Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.” “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.” “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a NO TRESPASSING sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”

Lois and Lorraine are having lunch at Judy’s house, speaking about how Judy nearly spoiled their double-wedding where they both became sisters under the name Farringdon-Petts by solving a mystery. Judy starts telling the story of the haunted fountain. She discovered a photo of a spectacular fountain in her grandmother’s hot attic one summer as she was stuck there for two weeks while her parents went on vacation. She shed a tear onto the photo while recalling her sadness about not having friends or a sister, and imagined the fountain was a place for lonely girls to fill with their tears. Her grandmother overhears her speaking aloud her wishes and calls that she shouldn’t keep her wishes to herself, because “most of them aren’t so impossible.”Judy’s grandparents take her to the fountain in the photo and it speaks to Judy, directing her to shed a tear into it and make wishes. Judy sheds a tear thinking about how her only friend just moved out of town and then hurries through her wishes before the ripples disappear - to have lots of friends, a sister, to marry a G-man and to solve a lot of mysteries. All things that have come true in her life.Abruptly returning to Judy’s modern timeline, she takes Lois and Lorraine to the attic. They are spooked by Judy’s black cat, Blackberry, who makes sudden noises. Judy finds the photo and Lorraine recognizes the fountain is identical to one on her estate - yet it is in a different location. They surmise that it is in the woods on the edge of town that are part of the Brandt estate, and drive to it immediately.During their adventure, Judy recalls more of her fountain memory. Her grandparents didn’t know the Brandt’s well enough to pay them a visit, but instead stopped by the fountain on their way to drop off her grandmother’s hooked rugs at the estate further up the path. Judy was left behind napping in a hammock - told by her grandparents they were getting her a surprise, but they didn’t return. She followed a path to an old windowless tower, but got distracted by the sound of her grandfather's cart leaving. This is all she recalls, but there is evidently more to discover that will solve the mystery.The trip to the fountain shakes the confidence of Lorraine in the back seat, who knows information about the new owners of the estate - Roger Banning - that she is withholding. Lois and Judy probe her about what she knows and why she ducked down to hide her face from a stranger passing in a car. Although Lorraine tells them about Roger, she does not reveal why she is afraid. Judy mentions knowing Roger’s pal Dick Hartwell, who is apparently in the Federal Penitentiary for forgery now. As they park and exit the car to walk to the fountain, two dark-coated strangers approach them. This is where the story ends.

Describe the setting for the story. </s> The Haunted Fountain id=chap01> CHAPTER I An Unsolved Mystery “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.” Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.” “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.” “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—” “Judy Dobbs, remember?” “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—” “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.” “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.” “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.” “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.” “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?” “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.” “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.” “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?” “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.” Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the FarringdonDaily Herald . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow. Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do? “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.” “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—” Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her. “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?” “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—” “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.” Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the GhostParade . “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.” But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain. “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud. Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces. “That tease!” For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!” Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried. “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—” A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Were they?” asked Lois. She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption. “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.” And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool. “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?” A voice had answered, although she could see noone. “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.” “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.” “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated. “But what is there to cry about?” “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?” “Then you—you are the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.” “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper. id=chap02> CHAPTER II If Wishes Came True “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?” “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.” First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway. “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister, and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.” “But what were they?” Lois insisted. Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.” “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked. “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—” “And your wishes all came true!” “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.” “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?” “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.” “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?” Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.” “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?” “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?” “All the year around?” Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.” “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.” “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her. “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?” “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.” “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.” “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.” “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.” “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.” Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it. “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided. Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream. “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.” “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle. Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it. “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above. “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends. “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs. “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?” “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?” The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain. “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.” “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?” “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.” “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—” “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked. Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.” “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?” “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to. “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?” “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?” “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.” “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.” “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.” “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?” “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested. id=chap03> CHAPTER III A Strange Encounter Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain. “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. “You’ll remember it, won’t you?” Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly. “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving. It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it. “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.” “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—” Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.” “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in. “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.” “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.” “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.” “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate. “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.” As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair. “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?” “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.” “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly. She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling. Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind. “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?” “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.” “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.” “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.” “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—” “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.” “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.” “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.” “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.” “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.” “For what?” asked Judy. Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip. “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her. Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime. “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?” “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained. “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine. “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling. Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?” Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.” “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.” “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a NO TRESPASSING sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”

The story opens at Judy’s house as she has Lois and Lorraine over for lunch. Judy’s lives in her grandparents' old house that she modernized with her husband, Peter. The house has an attic that is up a narrow set of stairs with a door at the top. They have a black cat named Blackberry that spooks her friends because it is creepy when it makes unexpected noises in the attic.When Judy is recalling the story of the fountain, the narrative bounces back and forth into their present reality as Lois and Lorraine ask questions.In Judy’s recalled story, she is a young red-haired girl with no friends who spends two weeks in the summer with her grandparents at their home. They have a hot attic filled with keepsakes and old reading materials, most notably a picture of a fountain that Judy’s grandmother later brings her to. The fountain was centered in a deep, circular pool, and had steps leading up to it that were bordered with smaller fountains of lions with water spurting out of the mouths. Judy thinks it could be a beautiful location at any time of the year, surrounded by lush vegetation like rhododendrons and evergreens. From the fountain there was a path leading to a windowless old tower that was populated by cupids and gnomes that peered out at Judy.Back in modern day, when Judy, Lois and Lorraine go looking for the fountain, the tower is still visible, and Lorraine describes it as something out of “Grimm’s Fairy Tales.” The friends visit it on a day where the trees are leafless in the woods, making the rhododendrons appear vibrantly green, under a gray sky. They do not actually reach the fountain in the story, but they do pass several posted signs for “NO TRESPASSING” along the wooded road.

Who is Judy and what is her personality like? </s> The Haunted Fountain id=chap01> CHAPTER I An Unsolved Mystery “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.” Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.” “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.” “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—” “Judy Dobbs, remember?” “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—” “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.” “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.” “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.” “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.” “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?” “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.” “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.” “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?” “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.” Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the FarringdonDaily Herald . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow. Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do? “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.” “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—” Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her. “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?” “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—” “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.” Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the GhostParade . “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.” But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain. “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud. Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces. “That tease!” For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!” Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried. “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—” A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Were they?” asked Lois. She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption. “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.” And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool. “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?” A voice had answered, although she could see noone. “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.” “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.” “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated. “But what is there to cry about?” “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?” “Then you—you are the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.” “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper. id=chap02> CHAPTER II If Wishes Came True “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?” “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.” First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway. “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister, and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.” “But what were they?” Lois insisted. Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.” “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked. “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—” “And your wishes all came true!” “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.” “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?” “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.” “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?” Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.” “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?” “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?” “All the year around?” Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.” “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.” “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her. “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?” “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.” “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.” “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.” “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.” “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.” Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it. “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided. Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream. “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.” “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle. Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it. “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above. “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends. “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs. “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?” “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?” The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain. “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.” “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?” “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.” “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—” “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked. Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.” “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?” “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to. “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?” “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?” “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.” “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.” “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.” “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?” “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested. id=chap03> CHAPTER III A Strange Encounter Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain. “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. “You’ll remember it, won’t you?” Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly. “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving. It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it. “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.” “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—” Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.” “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in. “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.” “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.” “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.” “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate. “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.” As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair. “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?” “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.” “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly. She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling. Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind. “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?” “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.” “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.” “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.” “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—” “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.” “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.” “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.” “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.” “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.” “For what?” asked Judy. Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip. “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her. Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime. “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?” “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained. “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine. “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling. Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?” Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.” “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.” “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a NO TRESPASSING sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”

Judy was a freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that spent two weeks every summer with her grandmother, Smeed, and grandfather while her parents went on vacation to a beach hotel they honeymooned at many years ago. Judy resented being left behind by her parents. However, during one summer with her grandparents, they took her to an enchanted fountain that Judy found a photo of in their attic. The fountain spoke to Judy and asked her to shed a tear into the fountain and make wishes. All of the things that Judy wished for in her life came true - to have a lot of friends, a sister, to marry a G-man and to solve a lot of mysteries. In the telling of the story, Judy is older, married, and has a sister Lois (by way of Judy’s marriage to her brother), and another close friend like a sister, Lorraine (by way of her marrying into the same family as Lois - the Farringdon-Petts). Judy shows modesty by bringing up the mysteries she never solved when Lois and Lorraine shower her with compliments. Judy’s grandparents have since passed, but she lives in their home and keeps their belongings in the attic, showing her connection with family. Judy (maiden name Bolten) is married to Peter Dobbs, an FBI agent, and she prefers to discuss facts instead of gossiping about hear-say with Lois and Lorraine. Judy is diligent in asking questions about Lorraine’s behavior when she ducks down in the car to hide her face from a passing stranger, and probes her to tell the truth about knowing who the new owner of the Brandt estate is - Roger Banning. Her wit is sharp, and she comes across as determined and willing to take risks to solve her mysteries (like passing no trespassing signs in broad daylight after they have already been spotted by a stranger).

What is the significance of tears in the story? </s> The Haunted Fountain id=chap01> CHAPTER I An Unsolved Mystery “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.” Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.” “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.” “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—” “Judy Dobbs, remember?” “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—” “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.” “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.” “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.” “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.” “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?” “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.” “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.” “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?” “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.” Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the FarringdonDaily Herald . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow. Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do? “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.” “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—” Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her. “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?” “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—” “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.” Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the GhostParade . “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.” But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain. “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud. Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces. “That tease!” For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!” Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried. “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—” A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Were they?” asked Lois. She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption. “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.” And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool. “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?” A voice had answered, although she could see noone. “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.” “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.” “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated. “But what is there to cry about?” “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?” “Then you—you are the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.” “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper. id=chap02> CHAPTER II If Wishes Came True “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?” “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.” First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway. “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister, and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.” “But what were they?” Lois insisted. Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.” “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked. “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—” “And your wishes all came true!” “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.” “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?” “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.” “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?” Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.” “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?” “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?” “All the year around?” Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.” “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.” “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her. “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?” “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.” “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.” “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.” “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.” “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.” Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it. “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided. Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream. “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.” “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle. Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it. “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above. “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends. “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs. “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?” “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?” The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain. “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.” “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?” “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.” “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—” “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked. Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.” “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?” “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to. “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?” “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?” “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.” “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.” “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.” “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?” “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested. id=chap03> CHAPTER III A Strange Encounter Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain. “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. “You’ll remember it, won’t you?” Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly. “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving. It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it. “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.” “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—” Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.” “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in. “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.” “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.” “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.” “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate. “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.” As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair. “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?” “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.” “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly. She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling. Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind. “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?” “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.” “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.” “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.” “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—” “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.” “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.” “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.” “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.” “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.” “For what?” asked Judy. Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip. “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her. Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime. “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?” “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained. “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine. “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling. Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?” Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.” “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.” “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a NO TRESPASSING sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”

Tears are the inciting event that connect Judy with the photo of the fountain as a tear rolls off her cheek and onto the photo as she thinks of her loneliness in her grandparents attic. Expressing her longing for friendship and a sister aloud sparks her grandmother to take her along to the fountain itself. When visiting the fountain, tears again become important because the fountain asks for a tear to be shed into it before wishes can be made.The physical description of tears rolling onto a photograph or causing small ripples in the fountain that travel and dissipate are important visualizations that draw the reader into Judy’s story, and make her character feel real.

What is the relationship like between Lois and Lorraine? </s> The Haunted Fountain id=chap01> CHAPTER I An Unsolved Mystery “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.” Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.” “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.” “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—” “Judy Dobbs, remember?” “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—” “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.” “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.” “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.” “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.” “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?” “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.” “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.” “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?” “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.” Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the FarringdonDaily Herald . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow. Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do? “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.” “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—” Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her. “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?” “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—” “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.” Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the GhostParade . “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.” But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain. “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud. Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces. “That tease!” For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!” Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried. “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—” A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Were they?” asked Lois. She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption. “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.” And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool. “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?” A voice had answered, although she could see noone. “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.” “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.” “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated. “But what is there to cry about?” “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?” “Then you—you are the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.” “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper. id=chap02> CHAPTER II If Wishes Came True “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?” “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.” First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway. “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister, and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.” “But what were they?” Lois insisted. Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.” “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked. “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—” “And your wishes all came true!” “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.” “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?” “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.” “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?” Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.” “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?” “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?” “All the year around?” Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.” “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.” “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her. “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?” “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.” “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.” “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.” “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.” “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.” Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it. “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided. Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream. “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.” “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle. Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it. “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above. “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends. “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs. “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?” “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?” The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain. “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.” “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?” “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.” “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—” “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked. Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.” “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?” “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to. “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?” “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?” “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.” “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.” “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.” “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?” “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested. id=chap03> CHAPTER III A Strange Encounter Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain. “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. “You’ll remember it, won’t you?” Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly. “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving. It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it. “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.” “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—” Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.” “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in. “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.” “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.” “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.” “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate. “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.” As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair. “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?” “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.” “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly. She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling. Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind. “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?” “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.” “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.” “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.” “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—” “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.” “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.” “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.” “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.” “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.” “For what?” asked Judy. Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip. “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her. Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime. “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?” “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained. “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine. “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling. Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?” Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.” “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.” “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a NO TRESPASSING sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”

Lois and Lorraine became sisters by marriage as they both married into the Farringdon-Petts family in a double-wedding event. Judy (a sister to Lois by way of her marrying Lois’ brother, Peter Dobbs), nearly ruined the double-wedding trying to solve a mystery.Lois is perhaps more forgiving to Judy, and Lorraine goes as far as to describe that Lois has always taken Judy’s side. Both Lois and Lorraine acknowledge that Judy is great at solving mysteries and try to lift her up when she is down on herself about the few that she couldn’t solve when they come over for lunch. Lorraine becomes evasive and hides from view when the three of them go to the fountain together, concealing information about the new owners of the Brandt estate that Lois and Judy eventually get out of her by probing questions. This event shows Lois’ willingness to challenge Lorraine, and perhaps also supporting “Judy’s side” as Lois calls her out on earlier in the story.

What is the plot of the story? </s> I am a Nucleus By STEPHEN BARR Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted. It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in. Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said. Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting. If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington. As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it. There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved. The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman. He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it. Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes. I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too. Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you? I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to. Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell. The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers. My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon. You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play! Several other loud voices started at the same time. Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row! Yeah, and only when you were dealer! The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned. Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked! The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight.... His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red. Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards. Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session.... I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces.... He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle. I'll have to go down for more soda, I said. I'll come, too. I need air. At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open. On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment. The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp. Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite. It was out of order. Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably. I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium. When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots. All right , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything. When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought, more trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence. Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on. Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly— Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent. At once, he said, and hung up. While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red. This was absolutely not my day. Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things.... He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern. Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration. He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you? Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps? Did you accumulate all that change today? No. During the week. He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be actually impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads. I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile. I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them. These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching. Well, I said, what more do you want? Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation. Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things? He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it? I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left. Hm. You're the center, all right. But why? Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me! McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic. Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life. On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look. I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee. We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it. Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats. Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere! Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be. All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it! And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary. The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife. Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was I all right! Molly! What are you doing here? I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right? Of course I'm all right. But why.... The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you sure you're all right? I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it. Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said. When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him. In other words, you think it's something organic? Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed. But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern. Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center. Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you feel all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist? Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence. Magnetism? Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving. Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form? Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability. Molly frowned. Then what is it? What's it made of? I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization. Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look. Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way. Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now— The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval. Certainly not, I said. Is it broken? Not exactly broken , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore. McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone. You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open. But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay. Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down. Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this. McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us. In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you? He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it. Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is. Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter. When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour. That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is acrystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise. Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man. I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I— Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said. I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.

Alec Graham returns to his home from the office after a long day. His wife Molly has left, and he still feels that it looks wife-deserted even after doing many chores to clean it up. He recounts his bad day, having forgotten to set his alarm and rushing to the TV Studio that he writes for. The taxi driver refuses to take him to Madison and Fifty-fourth, and the rain has gotten worse. His hand continuously bleeds after passing by a big excavation site, and he misses his story conference. After hearing the same phrases numerous times and all six elevators being jammed, he is convinced that he is coincidence prone. Molly leaves him instructions on how to take care of himself, and he works on his novel. More of these events happen with pigeons colliding and somebody getting five straight-flushes in a row. Nat tells Alec about the strange occurrence as they get soda. The three bottles do not break after falling at least five feet, and Danny, the cop, is shocked. Outside, more strange events occur when Nat almost gets caught up with a swerving taxi. Once they return home, he immediately calls McGill, an assistant mathematics professor for some expert advice. Once McGill arrives, he says that all of the events are very improbable, which makes him inclined to believe that Alec is stringing him on or subject to delusion. They do an experiment involving coin-throwing, and all of the coins are arranged in a neat pile when Alec throws them. McGill asks him some more questions about any recent occurrences, but Alec suggests that they go outside to eat. Outside, the cars are being towed away, while two pedestrians are having trouble letting each other pass. Danny is confused by all that is happening. Alec also runs into Molly, stuck in a confused wrangle of umbrellas with two other women. She explains that somebody from their home had kept calling her mother’s number, so she came back to investigate. Back at the apartment, all of this is traced back to Alec as the center. McGill tries to explain what is possibly happening to Alec, but they are interrupted by the telephone repairman. Molly suggests they go out to a restaurant to eat, and Nat comes along. They pass by the car jam again, and the police lieutenant looks at Alec with interest. Even at the restaurant, Alec realizes that his Tom Collins drink is made with salt instead of sugar. When the bartender tries to remake the drink for them, the shaker has frozen solid. It happens again with a new shaker, and the waiter is extremely confused. When Alec’s hand collides with Molly’s cigarette, it goes into the neighboring lady’s vichyssoise. The two of them are displeased, and when Alec stands up, he ends up pulling all of the contents on their entire table onto the floor. The lady and the man are furious at Alec; even the owner has come to fix the situation.

Describe the setting of the story. </s> I am a Nucleus By STEPHEN BARR Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted. It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in. Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said. Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting. If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington. As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it. There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved. The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman. He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it. Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes. I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too. Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you? I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to. Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell. The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers. My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon. You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play! Several other loud voices started at the same time. Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row! Yeah, and only when you were dealer! The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned. Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked! The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight.... His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red. Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards. Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session.... I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces.... He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle. I'll have to go down for more soda, I said. I'll come, too. I need air. At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open. On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment. The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp. Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite. It was out of order. Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably. I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium. When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots. All right , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything. When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought, more trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence. Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on. Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly— Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent. At once, he said, and hung up. While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red. This was absolutely not my day. Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things.... He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern. Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration. He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you? Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps? Did you accumulate all that change today? No. During the week. He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be actually impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads. I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile. I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them. These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching. Well, I said, what more do you want? Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation. Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things? He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it? I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left. Hm. You're the center, all right. But why? Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me! McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic. Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life. On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look. I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee. We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it. Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats. Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere! Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be. All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it! And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary. The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife. Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was I all right! Molly! What are you doing here? I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right? Of course I'm all right. But why.... The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you sure you're all right? I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it. Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said. When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him. In other words, you think it's something organic? Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed. But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern. Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center. Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you feel all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist? Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence. Magnetism? Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving. Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form? Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability. Molly frowned. Then what is it? What's it made of? I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization. Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look. Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way. Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now— The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval. Certainly not, I said. Is it broken? Not exactly broken , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore. McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone. You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open. But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay. Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down. Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this. McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us. In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you? He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it. Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is. Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter. When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour. That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is acrystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise. Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man. I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I— Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said. I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.

The story is initially set in Alec’s home. There is a radio, Greenwich Village thermometer, and a living room. In the home, there is also carpet, cushions, and ashtrays for cigarettes. Alec also owns an alarm clock to help him wake up. In the living room, there is also a typewriter and a telephone. Alec tries to go to his conference in New York, but it is raining heavily, and the cab refuses to take him to his destination. However, the story also mentions the subway, which he takes. Alec’s stop is Fifty-first and Lexington. There is also mention of a big excavation site for a new building. On his way to the studio, he also stops at the drugstore. There are also at least six elevators in his building. Around the corner of the apartment, there is a delicatessen that sells soda. On the streets outside, cars are jamming into each other and have to be towed away. Later, the story is set in a restaurant near Sixth Avenue. The restaurant is crowded but cool, and there is a bar too. There is also background music and the faint hum of the air-conditioner, both that stop shortly after.

Who is McGill, and what are his traits? </s> I am a Nucleus By STEPHEN BARR Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted. It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in. Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said. Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting. If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington. As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it. There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved. The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman. He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it. Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes. I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too. Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you? I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to. Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell. The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers. My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon. You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play! Several other loud voices started at the same time. Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row! Yeah, and only when you were dealer! The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned. Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked! The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight.... His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red. Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards. Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session.... I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces.... He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle. I'll have to go down for more soda, I said. I'll come, too. I need air. At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open. On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment. The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp. Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite. It was out of order. Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably. I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium. When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots. All right , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything. When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought, more trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence. Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on. Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly— Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent. At once, he said, and hung up. While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red. This was absolutely not my day. Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things.... He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern. Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration. He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you? Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps? Did you accumulate all that change today? No. During the week. He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be actually impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads. I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile. I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them. These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching. Well, I said, what more do you want? Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation. Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things? He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it? I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left. Hm. You're the center, all right. But why? Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me! McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic. Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life. On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look. I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee. We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it. Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats. Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere! Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be. All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it! And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary. The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife. Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was I all right! Molly! What are you doing here? I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right? Of course I'm all right. But why.... The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you sure you're all right? I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it. Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said. When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him. In other words, you think it's something organic? Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed. But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern. Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center. Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you feel all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist? Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence. Magnetism? Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving. Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form? Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability. Molly frowned. Then what is it? What's it made of? I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization. Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look. Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way. Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now— The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval. Certainly not, I said. Is it broken? Not exactly broken , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore. McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone. You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open. But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay. Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down. Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this. McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us. In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you? He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it. Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is. Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter. When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour. That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is acrystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise. Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man. I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I— Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said. I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.

McGill is an assistant mathematics professor at a nearby university. He is friends with both Alec and Molly, even calling to ask about the both of them. He is considered to be highly imaginative, but they believe that he knows everything. Personality-wise, McGill is a very logical person. He believes that what Alec has told him is normally impossible, and the odds against it are very astronomical as well. Even when Alec shows him what has happened to him, he continues to pursue a logical explanation. However, despite these theories, he tries to approach these findings logically and tells Alec not to be superstitious when they initially discuss why this is happening to him.

Who is Molly, and what are her traits? </s> I am a Nucleus By STEPHEN BARR Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted. It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in. Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said. Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting. If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington. As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it. There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved. The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman. He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it. Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes. I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too. Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you? I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to. Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell. The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers. My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon. You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play! Several other loud voices started at the same time. Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row! Yeah, and only when you were dealer! The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned. Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked! The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight.... His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red. Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards. Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session.... I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces.... He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle. I'll have to go down for more soda, I said. I'll come, too. I need air. At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open. On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment. The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp. Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite. It was out of order. Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably. I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium. When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots. All right , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything. When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought, more trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence. Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on. Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly— Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent. At once, he said, and hung up. While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red. This was absolutely not my day. Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things.... He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern. Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration. He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you? Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps? Did you accumulate all that change today? No. During the week. He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be actually impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads. I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile. I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them. These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching. Well, I said, what more do you want? Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation. Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things? He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it? I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left. Hm. You're the center, all right. But why? Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me! McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic. Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life. On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look. I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee. We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it. Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats. Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere! Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be. All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it! And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary. The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife. Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was I all right! Molly! What are you doing here? I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right? Of course I'm all right. But why.... The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you sure you're all right? I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it. Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said. When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him. In other words, you think it's something organic? Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed. But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern. Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center. Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you feel all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist? Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence. Magnetism? Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving. Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form? Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability. Molly frowned. Then what is it? What's it made of? I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization. Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look. Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way. Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now— The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval. Certainly not, I said. Is it broken? Not exactly broken , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore. McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone. You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open. But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay. Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down. Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this. McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us. In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you? He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it. Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is. Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter. When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour. That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is acrystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise. Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man. I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I— Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said. I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.

Molly Graham is Alec’s wife. She cares a lot about her husband, leaving him notes with instructions on what to do when she is gone. She is also a former nurse and loves Alec greatly to do all of this for him. Molly also has a habit of smoking, which she began doing when they went to the restaurant. When she notices something is wrong at home, she comes back immediately even though her previous plan was to visit her mother at Oyster Bay. Personality-wise, Molly is also a logical thinker. When Alec explains the situation to her, she also tries to find reasoning for it and catches on pretty quickly. Molly is very observant as well, watching the events that involve Alec play out.

How do the strange coincidences that happen to Alec affect his mood throughout the story? </s> I am a Nucleus By STEPHEN BARR Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order! When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone. What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted. It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in. Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said. Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting. If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington. As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it. There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference. During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved. The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman. He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it. Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in. Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon. I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes. I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too. Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end. There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence. Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you? I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to. Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell. The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers. My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon. You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play! Several other loud voices started at the same time. Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row! Yeah, and only when you were dealer! The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned. Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked! The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight.... His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red. Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards. Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session.... I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear. After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed. Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys didn't believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be my deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces.... He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle. I'll have to go down for more soda, I said. I'll come, too. I need air. At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open. On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment. The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp. Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn. Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite. It was out of order. Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably. I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium. When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots. All right , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything. When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought, more trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence. Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on. Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly— Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent. At once, he said, and hung up. While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red. This was absolutely not my day. Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things.... He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern. Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration. He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you? Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps? Did you accumulate all that change today? No. During the week. He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be actually impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads. I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile. I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them. These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching. Well, I said, what more do you want? Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation. Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things? He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it? I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left. Hm. You're the center, all right. But why? Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me! McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic. Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life. On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look. I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off. Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee. We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it. Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination. All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats. Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere! Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be. All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it! And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary. The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife. Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was I all right! Molly! What are you doing here? I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right? Of course I'm all right. But why.... The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you sure you're all right? I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it. Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said. When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet. He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him. In other words, you think it's something organic? Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed. But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern. Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center. Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you feel all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist? Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence. Magnetism? Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving. Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form? Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability. Molly frowned. Then what is it? What's it made of? I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization. Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look. Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way. Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now— The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval. Certainly not, I said. Is it broken? Not exactly broken , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore. McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone. You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open. But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay. Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down. Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry. I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this. McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us. In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way. I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you? He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it. Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me. If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is. Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter. When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady. I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces. The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour. That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is acrystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise. Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man. I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I— Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said. I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.

Alec is tired, upset, and confused about the strange coincidences relating to him. When he first goes home, he is extremely tired and compares his day to be the same as being beaten down. Judging from the events throughout his workday, he does not understand how they all relate to him and thinks of them as extremely weird coincidences. He even thinks of himself as being coincidence-prone. After the soda incident, however, he no longer finds it surprising after all that has happened to him. As the events build up, Alec slowly realizes that he is the center of it all, and he knows that he cannot get out of it. No matter how hard he tries, he directly interacts with or is nearby becomes strange coincidences.

What is the plot of the story? </s> THE AVENGER By STUART FLEMING Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been. There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again. I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter. It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking. It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly. A tear was trickling down my cheek. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him. Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well. What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong? He said, Have you seen the news recently? She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why? You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox? She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What— I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner? Yes, of course. But really, Pete— You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei. She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud. A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance. Lorelei caught her breath. It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony. The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things? They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough. The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest. That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us! Yes. Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room. Wait here, he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward. There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it. The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision. Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him. The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen. The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter. When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it. There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why? The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami.... The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive. ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom.... I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want? ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly.... Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre. His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor. The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead. Somebody said, Doctor! He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. He tried again. Doctor. Yes? A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor. Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets. You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please. He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei? She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man. Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor? The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been more —than three—months. He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner. She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with them for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational. But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her. Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago. But why? Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering. And since then? Peter asked huskily. Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse. I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it. Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see. Our last hope? Yes. You're a scientist. I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the Citadel . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but, maybe , hethought, there's a chance .... It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him. We'll come back.... He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands. After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down. Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done. He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out, TheAvenger curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him. Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship. The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance. He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder. And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope.... Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said. Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for. His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman. I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over. They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert. He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as they are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them. I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth. He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say? I repeated it patiently. But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it. You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind. His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people? To do so would be illogical. He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered. No, you don't understand that, either. Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert! I do not understand 'friend,' I said. I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it. I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.

Peter Karson has finished planning out the blueprint for the Citadel. He is excited to see it be built and go off into space to collect new information. Something suddenly snaps him out of his fantasy. Fifty stories above the window, there is a blood-red and subtly inhuman face staring back at him. The face slowly disappears, but he is stunned by the image. He then shakingly lights a cigarette and turns on the newsbox to see that an invader has appeared in Boston. More disasters are listed below, and the World Police announces that the Invaders have already begun terrorizing the world since they appeared twenty-four hours ago. Peter is doubtful that they can take down the Invaders and goes to Lorelei Cooper’s laboratory. Lorelei does not know what is happening because Harry and she have been working for thirty-six hours straight. She does not have a newsbox, but he tells her to turn on her scanner to see the news. The panel shows the Science City of Manhattan, but the Invaders have come and snatched up men and women. Slowly, two Invaders make their way to the Atlas building, where Peter and Lorelei are. He goes into the inner room, even though she yells at him not to go. The Invaders have reduced Harry to nothing but a puddle of flesh, and Peter begins to ask why they are doing this desperately. They whisper to him in a strange language; he suddenly realizes that Lorelei has followed him. She drops to the floor after looking at the Invaders, which makes Peter scream. When he awakes again, a doctor named Arnold tells him to lie back down and that he is in a hospital. Although Dr. Arnold initially tells him that he has been in the hospital for three months, he eventually finds out that it has already been nine and a half months since he went into his coma. All of the survivors are underground because nobody knew how to kill the Invaders. Peter is considered their last hope because he is a scientist, and he thinks back to his plan of the Citadel. The ship is built, and it is called The Avenger instead. Lorelei tries to plead with Peter, but he refuses and says that it must be him who finds a superman that can destroy the Invaders. He goes into space until the ship curves into orbit. Peter kills many of the changeling children, but he allows one to live. The child is named Robert and is considered to be a super-intelligent being. Peter is hopeful that the changeling can kill the Invaders, but Robert says he will not return to Earth. He explains that they are like kin to him, and he logically has no reason to kill him. Peter is shocked and tries to plead with Robert, but the superman does not understand emotions. Robert does not feel good about the expression on Peter’s face, and he hastens to an inevitable end.

Describe the setting of the story. </s> THE AVENGER By STUART FLEMING Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been. There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again. I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter. It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking. It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly. A tear was trickling down my cheek. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him. Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well. What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong? He said, Have you seen the news recently? She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why? You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox? She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What— I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner? Yes, of course. But really, Pete— You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei. She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud. A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance. Lorelei caught her breath. It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony. The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things? They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough. The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest. That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us! Yes. Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room. Wait here, he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward. There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it. The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision. Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him. The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen. The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter. When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it. There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why? The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami.... The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive. ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom.... I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want? ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly.... Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre. His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor. The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead. Somebody said, Doctor! He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. He tried again. Doctor. Yes? A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor. Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets. You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please. He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei? She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man. Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor? The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been more —than three—months. He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner. She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with them for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational. But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her. Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago. But why? Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering. And since then? Peter asked huskily. Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse. I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it. Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see. Our last hope? Yes. You're a scientist. I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the Citadel . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but, maybe , hethought, there's a chance .... It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him. We'll come back.... He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands. After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down. Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done. He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out, TheAvenger curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him. Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship. The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance. He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder. And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope.... Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said. Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for. His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman. I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over. They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert. He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as they are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them. I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth. He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say? I repeated it patiently. But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it. You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind. His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people? To do so would be illogical. He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered. No, you don't understand that, either. Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert! I do not understand 'friend,' I said. I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it. I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.

The story is first set inside Peter’s office. There is a window that he initially sees the Invader through. The window can see up to fifty stories high. There is also a desk with a newsbox on it, where he lights his cigarette. His office also has a chair. Many places worldwide are mentioned too, such as London, Hong Kong, Paris, and Boston. Lorelei’s laboratory is two stories down the moving ramp. It is behind a door marked “Radiation”, and there is also a door mechanism with a password set to “Etaoin Shrdlu”. Lorelei owns a scanner, a video panel on the wall that is initially covered in papers. There is also an inner room with an X-ray chamber. The building they are in is called the Atlas building. After Peter wakes from his coma, the story is set in a hospital underground. There is a metal stand and a bed for Peter to lie on. When he goes off with the mission to bring back a superman, the ship exits from the underground launch chamber and goes into space. Peter goes past the Moon, past Mars, and over the asteroid belt. From his distance, Earth is a tiny blue star.

What is the relationship between Peter and Lorelei? </s> THE AVENGER By STUART FLEMING Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been. There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again. I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter. It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking. It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly. A tear was trickling down my cheek. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him. Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well. What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong? He said, Have you seen the news recently? She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why? You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox? She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What— I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner? Yes, of course. But really, Pete— You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei. She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud. A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance. Lorelei caught her breath. It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony. The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things? They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough. The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest. That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us! Yes. Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room. Wait here, he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward. There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it. The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision. Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him. The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen. The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter. When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it. There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why? The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami.... The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive. ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom.... I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want? ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly.... Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre. His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor. The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead. Somebody said, Doctor! He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. He tried again. Doctor. Yes? A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor. Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets. You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please. He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei? She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man. Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor? The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been more —than three—months. He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner. She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with them for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational. But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her. Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago. But why? Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering. And since then? Peter asked huskily. Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse. I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it. Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see. Our last hope? Yes. You're a scientist. I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the Citadel . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but, maybe , hethought, there's a chance .... It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him. We'll come back.... He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands. After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down. Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done. He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out, TheAvenger curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him. Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship. The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance. He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder. And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope.... Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said. Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for. His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman. I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over. They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert. He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as they are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them. I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth. He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say? I repeated it patiently. But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it. You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind. His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people? To do so would be illogical. He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered. No, you don't understand that, either. Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert! I do not understand 'friend,' I said. I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it. I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.

Peter and Lorelei are romantically involved with each other. When Lorelei sees Peter, she calls him “my love” and “darling.” She puts her hands on his shoulders too and kisses him impulsively as a sign of affection. Peter cares greatly about Lorelei, too, as she was the first person he went to find after seeing the news about the Invaders. When he tries to investigate, she clings to him and pleads for him not to go. However, she follows along too, and he is horrified at what might happen to her. After Lorelei passes out, Peter cannot help but let out a scream. Even when he wakes up from his coma, the first thing he thinks about is Lorelei and repeatedly asks where she is. Lorelei continues to beg Peter not to leave on The Avenger and asks him to reconsider. He does not want to go, but he tells her that it is the only solution. She cries, and he goes on remorselessly even though it hurts him. Lorelei wants to come along too; Peter cares too much and tells her that he could not stand seeing her change from somebody beautiful because of the rays. Although they say farewell to each other and Lorelei affirms that he will come back, Peter does not trust himself to kiss her goodbye.

Describe The Avenger ship and its importance to the future of civilization. </s> THE AVENGER By STUART FLEMING Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been. There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again. I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter. It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking. It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly. A tear was trickling down my cheek. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him. Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well. What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong? He said, Have you seen the news recently? She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why? You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox? She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What— I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner? Yes, of course. But really, Pete— You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei. She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud. A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance. Lorelei caught her breath. It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony. The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things? They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough. The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest. That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us! Yes. Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room. Wait here, he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward. There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it. The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision. Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him. The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen. The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter. When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it. There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why? The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami.... The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive. ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom.... I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want? ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly.... Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre. His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor. The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead. Somebody said, Doctor! He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. He tried again. Doctor. Yes? A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor. Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets. You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please. He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei? She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man. Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor? The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been more —than three—months. He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner. She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with them for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational. But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her. Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago. But why? Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering. And since then? Peter asked huskily. Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse. I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it. Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see. Our last hope? Yes. You're a scientist. I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the Citadel . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but, maybe , hethought, there's a chance .... It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him. We'll come back.... He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands. After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down. Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done. He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out, TheAvenger curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him. Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship. The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance. He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder. And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope.... Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said. Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for. His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman. I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over. They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert. He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as they are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them. I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth. He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say? I repeated it patiently. But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it. You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind. His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people? To do so would be illogical. He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered. No, you don't understand that, either. Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert! I do not understand 'friend,' I said. I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it. I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.

The Avenger ship is what is built from Peter’s shining dream. It is much smaller than his initial blueprint, a globe of raw-dura steel no more than five hundred meters in diameter. It cannot house a thousand scientists, and the huge compartments are not filled with the latest equipment for experiments. Instead, it is filled with compressed oxygen and concentrated food to last a lifetime. There is also a control room, engine room, airlock, and inner lock. The Avenger ship is essential because it is the key to finding a superman who can save human civilization. Since the Invaders have caused the remaining population to burrow underground, this ship carries all hopes for the future. Peter believes that there is a chance that one embryo will be genetically modified enough to become a changeling who can save humanity. That is why he is willing to take the chance on the ship and realize his dream, even if it is not the dream he initially had in mind.

Who is Robert, and what are his traits in the story? </s> THE AVENGER By STUART FLEMING Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been. There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again. I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter. It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking. It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it. But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly. A tear was trickling down my cheek. Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him. Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well. What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong? He said, Have you seen the news recently? She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why? You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox? She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What— I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner? Yes, of course. But really, Pete— You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei. She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud. A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance. Lorelei caught her breath. It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone. There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony. The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it. Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things? They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough. The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest. That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us! Yes. Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away. The man and woman clung together, waiting. There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again. Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room. Wait here, he mouthed. She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there! Peter! But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward. There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it. The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision. Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him. The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen. The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter. When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it. There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why? The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering. The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened. Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami.... The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive. ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom.... I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want? ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous. He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly.... Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre. His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out. She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor. The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead. Somebody said, Doctor! He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly. He tried again. Doctor. Yes? A gentle, masculine voice. He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor. Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets. You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please. He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei? She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man. Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid. Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor? The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away. Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all. In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been more —than three—months. He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner. She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with them for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational. But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her. Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago. But why? Peter whispered. Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering. And since then? Peter asked huskily. Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse. I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it. Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see. Our last hope? Yes. You're a scientist. I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the Citadel . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but, maybe , hethought, there's a chance .... It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him. We'll come back.... He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands. After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate. He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down. Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done. He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out, TheAvenger curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him. Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship. The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance. He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder. And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope.... Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said. Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for. His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman. I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over. They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert. He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as they are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them. I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth. He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say? I repeated it patiently. But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it. You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people. Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind. His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people? To do so would be illogical. He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered. No, you don't understand that, either. Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert! I do not understand 'friend,' I said. I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it. I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.

Robert is the one changeling child that Peter did not destroy. He is described to have an eager brain, and Peter keeps feeding knowledge to it. Robert also has a superior brain, capable of instinctively solving problems that would take mechanical computers hours of work. Physically, Robert also has talons. However, despite being a successful superman, Robert does not understand anything emotional. He refuses to go back to Earth to destroy the Invaders, citing that he is a being of logic. Robert says that he will use the people on Earth for his own gain, which the Invaders are already doing. Therefore, he finds it illogical when Peter asks him to kill the Invaders and not his people. Even when Peter says that he is his friend, Robert says he does not understand and believes that gratitude is a reciprocal arrangement.

What is the plot of the story? </s> A Gift From Earth By MANLY BANISTER Illustrated by KOSSIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Except for transportation, it was absolutely free ... but how much would the freight cost? It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians! Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur. It is a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor. The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease. By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken. Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe. Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport. Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family. Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay. Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid. Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it. There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade. In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread. The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him. What is that thing? he asked curiously. A pot. I bought it at the market. Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay! The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped. What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light? The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on. Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot? A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so. He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones. The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem. After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well. And Koltan put the model into production. Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us. The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland. In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up. As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur. You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth. Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful. Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures. Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us. Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided. They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined. The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own. Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur. By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur. The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor. At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was. Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly. In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing autos to Zur! The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles. It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that. At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet. Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement. You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing. The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil. What is that? asked Koltan. It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them. The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview. All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur. Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him. Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time. All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner. Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth. Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer. Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages. Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile? No. A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio? Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things. Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home. To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation. None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time. He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.' The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, How much does the freight cost? Broderick told him. It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship. Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more. You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit! What is that? asked Zotul skeptically. It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit? Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan. Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue. Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it. It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures. The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely. Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble. I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments. I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down. We haven't the equipment. We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany. Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating. About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age? The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them. We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it? But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes. The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness. For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure. The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating. Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts. I don't know what you mean, said Zotul. If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us. The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted. To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us. The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious. The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou. Me? marveled Zotul. She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile. Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman. I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion. Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down. I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant. You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact. What do you mean? Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out. Our government.... Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over. You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur? Even your armies. But why ? Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street. You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth. But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache. And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in. And after that? Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both. Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you? No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations. At last I understand what you said about the tortoise. Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system. Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed! Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign? Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.

The House of Masur is a family business in Zur, run by Koltan and his six sons. The business specializes in pottery and clay manufacturing for Zur. The family gathers as they deliberate the upcoming arrival of Earthmen. Some of the brothers express frustration that the Earthmen will be landing among the Thorabians rather than in Zur, disrupting their plan to steal the precious, scarce metals off their ship. Zotul, the youngest of the brothers, discourages the plan, saying that the Earthmen's ship is their only way of transport. After the meeting, Zotul ponders what other benefits the Earthmen could serve. The Earthmen eventually arrive at Zur, parading the streets and making speeches, and leaving shortly after. They return with multiple ships and establish corporations all over Zur. One day, Zotul's wife brings home a metal pot, which she had bought from Earthmen; she tells him that they are high in demand and that a new type of stove is essential to use them. Zotul protests, but later designs a ceramic stove, which becomes a successful development in their business. Earthmen continue introducing more technology to Zur, including a printing press and telegraphs. Zotul notes internally that though the business has made profit, it is dependent upon the pots from Earth. The business quickly begins declining, with sales dropping. They attempt to advertise their business, but advertisement has become fully occupied by Earth. After ten years, during which Koltan has passed on, the Masur business has dwindled. The brothers decide to go to the governor of Lor, who tells them that the developments are all beneficial, informing them of a new production of highways. The brothers are optimistic that they would be able to use their clay for the roads, but Earthmen begin using cement. The governor then refers the brothers to Earth's Merchandising Council, where Zotul meets Kent Broderick, where he expresses sympathy about the status of the Masur business and offers them the luxuries brought by Earthmen, completely free except for the cost of freight. The cost, however, is more than the brothers could ever afford, and so Broderick sets them up with a credit system, as well as a contract for the family to supply Earthmen with ceramic parts. The brothers enjoy their luxury, but it is short lived, as their contract expires and they find themselves in debt. Zotul then revisits the governor, who ends up being Broderick. Broderick informs Zotul that Earth has bought them, and every business in Zur, out, and that they own everything. Broderick tells Zotul that the family will work for Earth now, and that Earth will fully conquer Zur.

What is the relationship between Zotul and the rest of the brothers? </s> A Gift From Earth By MANLY BANISTER Illustrated by KOSSIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Except for transportation, it was absolutely free ... but how much would the freight cost? It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians! Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur. It is a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor. The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease. By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken. Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe. Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport. Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family. Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay. Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid. Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it. There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade. In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread. The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him. What is that thing? he asked curiously. A pot. I bought it at the market. Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay! The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped. What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light? The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on. Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot? A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so. He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones. The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem. After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well. And Koltan put the model into production. Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us. The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland. In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up. As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur. You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth. Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful. Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures. Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us. Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided. They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined. The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own. Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur. By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur. The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor. At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was. Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly. In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing autos to Zur! The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles. It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that. At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet. Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement. You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing. The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil. What is that? asked Koltan. It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them. The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview. All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur. Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him. Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time. All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner. Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth. Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer. Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages. Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile? No. A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio? Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things. Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home. To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation. None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time. He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.' The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, How much does the freight cost? Broderick told him. It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship. Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more. You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit! What is that? asked Zotul skeptically. It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit? Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan. Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue. Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it. It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures. The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely. Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble. I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments. I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down. We haven't the equipment. We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany. Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating. About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age? The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them. We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it? But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes. The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness. For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure. The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating. Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts. I don't know what you mean, said Zotul. If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us. The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted. To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us. The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious. The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou. Me? marveled Zotul. She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile. Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman. I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion. Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down. I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant. You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact. What do you mean? Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out. Our government.... Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over. You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur? Even your armies. But why ? Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street. You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth. But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache. And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in. And after that? Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both. Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you? No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations. At last I understand what you said about the tortoise. Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system. Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed! Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign? Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.

Each of the six brothers of the Masur business has their own specialty; a director, treasurer, vice-chief, sales manager, export chief, and Zotul, their designer. Despite their equal roles in the business, Zotul is the youngest brother, and for this reason is mistreated. In meetings and conferences, he is rarely allowed to speak without being scolded, and his input is never taken seriously. Zotul also experiences beatings by his brothers regularly. Even though Zotul experiences this treatment, the brothers still expect him to carry the weight of responsibilities for them, such as meeting with Broderick.

Where does the story take place? </s> A Gift From Earth By MANLY BANISTER Illustrated by KOSSIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Except for transportation, it was absolutely free ... but how much would the freight cost? It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians! Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur. It is a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor. The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease. By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken. Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe. Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport. Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family. Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay. Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid. Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it. There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade. In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread. The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him. What is that thing? he asked curiously. A pot. I bought it at the market. Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay! The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped. What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light? The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on. Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot? A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so. He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones. The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem. After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well. And Koltan put the model into production. Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us. The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland. In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up. As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur. You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth. Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful. Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures. Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us. Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided. They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined. The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own. Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur. By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur. The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor. At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was. Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly. In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing autos to Zur! The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles. It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that. At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet. Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement. You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing. The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil. What is that? asked Koltan. It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them. The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview. All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur. Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him. Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time. All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner. Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth. Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer. Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages. Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile? No. A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio? Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things. Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home. To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation. None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time. He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.' The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, How much does the freight cost? Broderick told him. It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship. Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more. You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit! What is that? asked Zotul skeptically. It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit? Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan. Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue. Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it. It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures. The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely. Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble. I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments. I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down. We haven't the equipment. We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany. Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating. About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age? The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them. We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it? But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes. The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness. For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure. The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating. Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts. I don't know what you mean, said Zotul. If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us. The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted. To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us. The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious. The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou. Me? marveled Zotul. She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile. Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman. I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion. Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down. I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant. You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact. What do you mean? Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out. Our government.... Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over. You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur? Even your armies. But why ? Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street. You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth. But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache. And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in. And after that? Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both. Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you? No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations. At last I understand what you said about the tortoise. Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system. Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed! Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign? Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.

The story takes place in Zur, a region within Lor, on a foreign planet. There is a neighboring region, Thorabia, often seen as a rival. Zur is initially a mellow city, made of clay and tile. However, once Earth begins overtaking Zur, the city becomes more crowded and filled with large, corporate buildings, made of cement and metal. Much of the story occurs within the office of the Masur family business, as well as the governor's building, and the office of the Merchandising Council.

How are the Earthmen able to expand on Zur? </s> A Gift From Earth By MANLY BANISTER Illustrated by KOSSIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Except for transportation, it was absolutely free ... but how much would the freight cost? It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians! Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur. It is a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor. The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease. By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken. Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe. Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport. Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family. Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay. Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid. Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it. There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade. In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread. The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him. What is that thing? he asked curiously. A pot. I bought it at the market. Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay! The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped. What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light? The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on. Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot? A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so. He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones. The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem. After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well. And Koltan put the model into production. Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us. The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland. In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up. As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur. You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth. Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful. Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures. Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us. Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided. They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined. The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own. Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur. By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur. The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor. At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was. Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly. In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing autos to Zur! The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles. It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that. At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet. Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement. You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing. The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil. What is that? asked Koltan. It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them. The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview. All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur. Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him. Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time. All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner. Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth. Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer. Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages. Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile? No. A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio? Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things. Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home. To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation. None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time. He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.' The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, How much does the freight cost? Broderick told him. It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship. Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more. You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit! What is that? asked Zotul skeptically. It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit? Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan. Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue. Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it. It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures. The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely. Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble. I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments. I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down. We haven't the equipment. We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany. Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating. About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age? The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them. We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it? But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes. The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness. For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure. The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating. Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts. I don't know what you mean, said Zotul. If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us. The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted. To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us. The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious. The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou. Me? marveled Zotul. She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile. Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman. I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion. Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down. I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant. You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact. What do you mean? Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out. Our government.... Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over. You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur? Even your armies. But why ? Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street. You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth. But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache. And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in. And after that? Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both. Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you? No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations. At last I understand what you said about the tortoise. Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system. Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed! Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign? Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.

The Earthmen first visit Zur as a small group, exploring the city and giving speeches declaring future prosperity for Zur. They return shortly after with more people, and establish corporations and a trade business. The Earthmen begin with small products, metal pots, but other businesses soon have to accommodate to Earth's goods. Earth quickly earns profit, with many Zurian businesses dependent on their production. They begin establishing more advanced forms of technology, such as printing, radio, and automobiles. The people of Zur are fascinated, and business booms even more. Eventually, Zur is completely remodeled with Earth products and services, driving other businesses to failure and resulting in the overtaking of the city.

What happens to Broderick in the story? </s> A Gift From Earth By MANLY BANISTER Illustrated by KOSSIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Except for transportation, it was absolutely free ... but how much would the freight cost? It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians! Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur. At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design. Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur. It is a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor. The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease. By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken. Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe. Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport. Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan. When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family. Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment. Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay. Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid. Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe. By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident. The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it. There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur. Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too. Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen. Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade. In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread. The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him. What is that thing? he asked curiously. A pot. I bought it at the market. Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay! The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped. What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light? The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on. Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot? A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so. He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones. The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem. After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well. And Koltan put the model into production. Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us. The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland. In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance. Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up. As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur. You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence. It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth. About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was. The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth. Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful. Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures. Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us. Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided. They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined. The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own. Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur. By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur. The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor. At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was. Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly. In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials. Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay. I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing autos to Zur! The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles. It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that. At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet. Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement. You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing. The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil. What is that? asked Koltan. It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them. The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview. All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur. Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him. Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time. All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner. Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur. Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth. Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer. Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages. Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile? No. A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio? Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things. Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed. To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home. To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation. None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time. He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.' The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation. He said, How much does the freight cost? Broderick told him. It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship. Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more. You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit! What is that? asked Zotul skeptically. It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect. On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit? Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan. Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue. Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it. It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won. I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures. The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely. Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble. I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments. I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down. We haven't the equipment. We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany. Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears. The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry. For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating. About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age? The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them. We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it? But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do. The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes. The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness. For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure. The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment. The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less. The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully. You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating. Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would. Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance. So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts. I don't know what you mean, said Zotul. If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us. The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted. To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us. The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious. The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou. Me? marveled Zotul. She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile. Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again. Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman. I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion. Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down. I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant. You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact. What do you mean? Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out. Our government.... Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over. You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur? Even your armies. But why ? Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street. You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth. But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache. And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in. And after that? Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both. Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you? No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations. At last I understand what you said about the tortoise. Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system. Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed! Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign? Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.

Broderick is an Earthman in charge of the Merchandising Council. He first meets with Zotul and hears his complaints about the failure of the Masur business due to Earth's expansion. Broderick, putting on a guise of sympathy, offers Zotul luxuries to enjoy with his family, in return for credit and their production of ceramics for automobiles. Broderick later moves up in hierarchy and becomes the governor of Zur, achieving power over all affairs. He meets Zotul again and gets the Masur family to work completely for him.

What is the plot of the story? </s> Confidence Game By JIM HARMON Illustrated by EPSTEIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him. Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen. Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth! I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human. I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him. The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help? I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew. Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were aliens . They weren't men like Doc and me. Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically. We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining. Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me. Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless. We can always make it over to the mission, I lied. The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In ad vance. I placed the quarter on the desk. Give me a nickel. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc. You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a room for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty. I knew I was going to need that nickel. Desperately. I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed. Give me a nickel, I said. What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle? I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that did scare me. I had to get him alone. Where's the room? I asked. The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me, I knew that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc. Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some. I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to. He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that. I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow. Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull. He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.) I don't remember how I got out onto the street. She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible tourist . I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration. That was what coffee did for me. I was a caffeine addict. Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the need ran as deep. I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a man , of course, not an alien like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it? Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices. I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life. The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws. Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me. Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded. She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it. That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know. That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said. It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice.... What's your name? she said to me. I choked a little on a bite of stale bun. I had a name, of course . Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that was my name. Kevin, I told her. John Kevin. Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help me . Happy to, miss, I mumbled. She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this? I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. Dear Acolyte R. I. S. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name : ........................ Address : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out. I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you. She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand? I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it. I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways. First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right. Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a thing . My heart hammered at my lungs. I knew this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart. He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole. I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost. I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls. I knelt beside Doc. An order, my boy, an order, he whispered. I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders? He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it. Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate.... I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration. The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most. The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot.... I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately. Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel. A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird. My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization. The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow. I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand time from which he comes. The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked. He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance. I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother— Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate? He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did. You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations. The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works. The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist. There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron. Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality. I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal. His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms. The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not really a snowbird. After a time, I asked the doctor a question. Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously. Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it.... ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun. She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin. I handed her the doctor's manuscript. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else. I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her. She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you. It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you? She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want? Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel? I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar. Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee. He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that did not exist . I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid. I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face. The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy. I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones. I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the thing on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do. I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway. Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference. I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could. You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally. I'll keep it, thanks. What do you want? I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago. They always do, I told him. They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said. Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up. Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try. Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath? The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed. But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't that dirty. The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the thing on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it. I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee. It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked. Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash. You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently. I was knocked to my knees. Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which areyou? Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth. What is Doc's full name? I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior. From the bed, Doc said a word. Son. Then he disappeared. I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what. He didn't use that, Andre said. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the thing he left. The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the Book of Dyzan or the Book of Thoth or the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan or the Necronomican itself on human beings? But they don't exist, I said wearily. Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought. The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians. Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew. Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it. I kicked the thing to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now. Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me. I'm glad, she said. Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief? I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed it because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident. Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.

John Kevin catches up with Doc, who has grabbed a human by the throat. He tells the human that man will reach the moon tonight, and the man agrees, so Doc will let him go. Kevin apologizes to the human and says that his father has trouble differentiating old events. They see Martian tourists approaching the corner, and Kevin recalls how he hates Martian tourists because they are aliens. The two go to a flophouse, where Kevin bargains with the clerk over the price of a room. He threatens the human but stops when he hears Doc mumbling. They go to the room, and he lays Doc out on the cot. Doc begins to mumble more, while Kevin begins to copy down the words in his notebook again. Kevin knows that what Doc is mumbling will make him the most powerful man in the Solar Federation, especially because Doc was once somebody extremely important. Doc then begins to cry, and Kevin decides to comfort him slightly. Kevin then meets a woman by the bus stop and asks her for a dime for coffee. He realizes that she is a human tourist and recalls how he hates tourists. She offers to buy him dinner too, and they go to get a coffee. Kevin is revealed to be a caffeine addict, and he tells the woman that he wants a hamburger. One hamburger becomes several, and he drinks a glass of milk. Kevin asks the woman for a few to take home, and she introduces herself as Miss Vivian Casey. Kevin tells her his name too, and she hands him a coupon from a magazine. When he comes back to his senses, the counterman is pulling a five-dollar bill from under his hand. When he goes back, Doc has made something. It is revealed that Kevin has been trying to get time travel from Doc for the past few months and sees a condemned snowbird. The two thin and heavy men talk to him, asking him to tell them where he came from. The doctor explains his condition and hands him a manuscript, and Kevin steps into the range of Miss Casey’s gun in real life. He asks her for coffee again, and she re-introduces herself as a North American Mounted Police member. She explains that Doc wanted to profit off of his time travel, but he did not have money. He wrestles the gun from her; suddenly, a Martian by the name of Andre appears. Andre makes Kevin realize that he is not a Centurian humanoid because he is the son of Doc. Kevin destroys the thing that Doc creates because he knows nobody is ready for time travel to be rediscovered. Miss Casey and Andre are relieved, while Kevin ponders why he destroyed the machine. He thinks it may be because of emotions or roast coffee.

Who is Vivian Casey, and what are her characteristics? </s> Confidence Game By JIM HARMON Illustrated by EPSTEIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him. Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen. Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth! I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human. I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him. The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help? I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew. Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were aliens . They weren't men like Doc and me. Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically. We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining. Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me. Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless. We can always make it over to the mission, I lied. The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In ad vance. I placed the quarter on the desk. Give me a nickel. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc. You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a room for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty. I knew I was going to need that nickel. Desperately. I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed. Give me a nickel, I said. What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle? I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that did scare me. I had to get him alone. Where's the room? I asked. The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me, I knew that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc. Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some. I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to. He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that. I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow. Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull. He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.) I don't remember how I got out onto the street. She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible tourist . I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration. That was what coffee did for me. I was a caffeine addict. Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the need ran as deep. I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a man , of course, not an alien like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it? Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices. I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life. The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws. Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me. Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded. She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it. That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know. That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said. It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice.... What's your name? she said to me. I choked a little on a bite of stale bun. I had a name, of course . Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that was my name. Kevin, I told her. John Kevin. Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help me . Happy to, miss, I mumbled. She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this? I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. Dear Acolyte R. I. S. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name : ........................ Address : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out. I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you. She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand? I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it. I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways. First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right. Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a thing . My heart hammered at my lungs. I knew this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart. He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole. I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost. I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls. I knelt beside Doc. An order, my boy, an order, he whispered. I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders? He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it. Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate.... I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration. The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most. The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot.... I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately. Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel. A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird. My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization. The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow. I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand time from which he comes. The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked. He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance. I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother— Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate? He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did. You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations. The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works. The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist. There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron. Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality. I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal. His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms. The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not really a snowbird. After a time, I asked the doctor a question. Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously. Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it.... ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun. She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin. I handed her the doctor's manuscript. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else. I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her. She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you. It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you? She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want? Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel? I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar. Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee. He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that did not exist . I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid. I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face. The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy. I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones. I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the thing on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do. I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway. Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference. I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could. You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally. I'll keep it, thanks. What do you want? I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago. They always do, I told him. They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said. Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up. Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try. Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath? The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed. But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't that dirty. The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the thing on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it. I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee. It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked. Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash. You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently. I was knocked to my knees. Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which areyou? Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth. What is Doc's full name? I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior. From the bed, Doc said a word. Son. Then he disappeared. I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what. He didn't use that, Andre said. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the thing he left. The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the Book of Dyzan or the Book of Thoth or the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan or the Necronomican itself on human beings? But they don't exist, I said wearily. Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought. The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians. Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew. Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it. I kicked the thing to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now. Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me. I'm glad, she said. Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief? I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed it because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident. Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.

Vivian Casey is described as a pink and clean woman who smells of clean soap. Her hair is platinum, pulled straight back to draw her cheek-bones tighter. She has an appealing mouth; Kevin also notes that her body is lean, athletic, and feminine. She also wears a powder-blue dress that goes down to the lower-half of her legs. She speaks in an educated voice and is kind enough to take Kevin to get some food. Although he is annoyed she decided to tag along, she lets him order multiple hamburgers to satisfy his hunger. When she introduces herself, he assumes that she is a schoolteacher. Kevin later realizes that she did not pay for his dinner at all. Miss Casey then comes back with a tiny gun. She is shown to be proficient with the firearm, introducing her true identity as a Constable of the North American Mounted Police. She is also very intelligent, being fully aware of what Doc has tried to do in the past. Although she uses force to judo hold Kevin, she doesn’t put her heart into it. Finally, she is shown to be proud of Kevin when he does the right thing and destroys the time machine.

What are some of the harmful consequences caused by Doc’s use of time travel? </s> Confidence Game By JIM HARMON Illustrated by EPSTEIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him. Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen. Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth! I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human. I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him. The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help? I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew. Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were aliens . They weren't men like Doc and me. Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically. We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining. Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me. Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless. We can always make it over to the mission, I lied. The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In ad vance. I placed the quarter on the desk. Give me a nickel. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc. You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a room for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty. I knew I was going to need that nickel. Desperately. I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed. Give me a nickel, I said. What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle? I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that did scare me. I had to get him alone. Where's the room? I asked. The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me, I knew that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc. Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some. I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to. He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that. I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow. Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull. He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.) I don't remember how I got out onto the street. She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible tourist . I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration. That was what coffee did for me. I was a caffeine addict. Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the need ran as deep. I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a man , of course, not an alien like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it? Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices. I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life. The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws. Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me. Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded. She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it. That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know. That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said. It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice.... What's your name? she said to me. I choked a little on a bite of stale bun. I had a name, of course . Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that was my name. Kevin, I told her. John Kevin. Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help me . Happy to, miss, I mumbled. She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this? I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. Dear Acolyte R. I. S. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name : ........................ Address : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out. I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you. She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand? I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it. I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways. First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right. Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a thing . My heart hammered at my lungs. I knew this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart. He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole. I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost. I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls. I knelt beside Doc. An order, my boy, an order, he whispered. I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders? He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it. Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate.... I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration. The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most. The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot.... I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately. Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel. A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird. My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization. The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow. I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand time from which he comes. The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked. He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance. I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother— Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate? He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did. You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations. The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works. The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist. There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron. Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality. I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal. His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms. The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not really a snowbird. After a time, I asked the doctor a question. Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously. Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it.... ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun. She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin. I handed her the doctor's manuscript. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else. I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her. She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you. It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you? She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want? Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel? I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar. Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee. He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that did not exist . I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid. I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face. The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy. I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones. I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the thing on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do. I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway. Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference. I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could. You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally. I'll keep it, thanks. What do you want? I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago. They always do, I told him. They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said. Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up. Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try. Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath? The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed. But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't that dirty. The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the thing on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it. I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee. It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked. Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash. You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently. I was knocked to my knees. Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which areyou? Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth. What is Doc's full name? I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior. From the bed, Doc said a word. Son. Then he disappeared. I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what. He didn't use that, Andre said. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the thing he left. The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the Book of Dyzan or the Book of Thoth or the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan or the Necronomican itself on human beings? But they don't exist, I said wearily. Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought. The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians. Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew. Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it. I kicked the thing to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now. Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me. I'm glad, she said. Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief? I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed it because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident. Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.

Doc’s use of time travel has caused hundreds of people to disappear from North America a few months ago. He initially starts off using time travel to get rare editions of books and magazines in mint condition. However, he derails and starts getting books that do not exist. For many of his clients, they shortly ceased to exist after obtaining a book from Doc. Doc also had bought the entire stock of an ancient metaphysical order, which he then supplied to his clients. Books such as the Book of Dyzan, Book of Thoth, Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, and the Necromican were given away even if they do not exist in the present-day. These books are extremely harmful because they essentially instruct the human race on how to achieve a state of pure logic without requiring food, sex, or conflict.

Who is Kevin, and what are his characteristics? </s> Confidence Game By JIM HARMON Illustrated by EPSTEIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him. Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen. Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth! I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human. I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him. The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help? I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew. Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were aliens . They weren't men like Doc and me. Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically. We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining. Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me. Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless. We can always make it over to the mission, I lied. The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In ad vance. I placed the quarter on the desk. Give me a nickel. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc. You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a room for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty. I knew I was going to need that nickel. Desperately. I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed. Give me a nickel, I said. What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle? I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that did scare me. I had to get him alone. Where's the room? I asked. The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me, I knew that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc. Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some. I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to. He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that. I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow. Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull. He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.) I don't remember how I got out onto the street. She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible tourist . I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration. That was what coffee did for me. I was a caffeine addict. Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the need ran as deep. I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a man , of course, not an alien like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it? Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices. I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life. The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws. Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me. Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded. She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it. That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know. That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said. It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice.... What's your name? she said to me. I choked a little on a bite of stale bun. I had a name, of course . Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that was my name. Kevin, I told her. John Kevin. Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help me . Happy to, miss, I mumbled. She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this? I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. Dear Acolyte R. I. S. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name : ........................ Address : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out. I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you. She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand? I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it. I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways. First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right. Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a thing . My heart hammered at my lungs. I knew this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart. He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole. I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost. I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls. I knelt beside Doc. An order, my boy, an order, he whispered. I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders? He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it. Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate.... I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration. The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most. The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot.... I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately. Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel. A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird. My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization. The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow. I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand time from which he comes. The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked. He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance. I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother— Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate? He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did. You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations. The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works. The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist. There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron. Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality. I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal. His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms. The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not really a snowbird. After a time, I asked the doctor a question. Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously. Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it.... ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun. She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin. I handed her the doctor's manuscript. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else. I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her. She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you. It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you? She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want? Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel? I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar. Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee. He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that did not exist . I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid. I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face. The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy. I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones. I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the thing on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do. I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway. Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference. I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could. You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally. I'll keep it, thanks. What do you want? I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago. They always do, I told him. They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said. Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up. Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try. Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath? The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed. But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't that dirty. The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the thing on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it. I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee. It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked. Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash. You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently. I was knocked to my knees. Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which areyou? Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth. What is Doc's full name? I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior. From the bed, Doc said a word. Son. Then he disappeared. I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what. He didn't use that, Andre said. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the thing he left. The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the Book of Dyzan or the Book of Thoth or the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan or the Necronomican itself on human beings? But they don't exist, I said wearily. Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought. The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians. Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew. Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it. I kicked the thing to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now. Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me. I'm glad, she said. Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief? I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed it because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident. Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.

Kevin initially believes that he is a Centurian who must carry Doc around in order to achieve something powerful from the man. He firmly believes him and Doc to be superior to the Earthmen and Martian tourists. Kevin is filthy, but he refuses to take a bath. He also has an addiction to caffeine, mistakenly believing that it is the side effect of being a Centurian. Although he looks down on humans, he is desperate enough to ask one for help and for some food. His fingernails are black-crowned and broken, while his teeth are of yellow ivory. He is also suntan and sprouts a short mane. Although he lies to Miss Casey and says his name is John Kevin, he realizes that his name is actually Kevin O’Malley. While Kevin does admit that he wants something from Doc, he also is clearly shown to care for the old man. It is later revealed that Doc is his father, Kevin O’Malley Sr. Even after Miss Casey reveals she is a member of the police, Kevin is still brave enough to throw the rest of the coffee in her face. Later, he realizes that he is actually an Earth human and not a Centurian. His caffeine addiction comes from the mind. Even though he cares for his father, Kevin does choose to make the right decision to destroy the time machine because he does not want humanity to become purely logical.

Describe the setting of the story. </s> Confidence Game By JIM HARMON Illustrated by EPSTEIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him. Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen. Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth! I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human. I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him. The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help? I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew. Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were aliens . They weren't men like Doc and me. Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically. We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining. Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me. Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless. We can always make it over to the mission, I lied. The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In ad vance. I placed the quarter on the desk. Give me a nickel. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc. You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a room for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty. I knew I was going to need that nickel. Desperately. I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed. Give me a nickel, I said. What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle? I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that did scare me. I had to get him alone. Where's the room? I asked. The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me, I knew that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation. That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was. I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc. Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some. I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to. He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that. I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow. Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull. He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.) I don't remember how I got out onto the street. She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible tourist . I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration. That was what coffee did for me. I was a caffeine addict. Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the need ran as deep. I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing. Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked. I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an Earth human. I was a man , of course, not an alien like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it? Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices. I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life. The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws. Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me. Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded. She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it. That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know. That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said. It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice.... What's your name? she said to me. I choked a little on a bite of stale bun. I had a name, of course . Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that was my name. Kevin, I told her. John Kevin. Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help me . Happy to, miss, I mumbled. She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this? I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. Dear Acolyte R. I. S. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name : ........................ Address : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out. I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you. She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand? I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it. I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways. First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right. Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a thing . My heart hammered at my lungs. I knew this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart. He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole. I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost. I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls. I knelt beside Doc. An order, my boy, an order, he whispered. I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders? He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it. Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate.... I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration. The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most. The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot.... I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately. Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel. A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird. My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization. The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow. I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand time from which he comes. The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked. He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance. I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother— Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate? He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did. You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations. The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works. The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist. There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron. Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality. I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal. His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms. The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not really a snowbird. After a time, I asked the doctor a question. Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously. Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it.... ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun. She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin. I handed her the doctor's manuscript. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else. I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her. She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you. It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you? She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want? Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel? I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar. Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee. He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that did not exist . I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid. I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face. The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy. I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones. I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the thing on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do. I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway. Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference. I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could. You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally. I'll keep it, thanks. What do you want? I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago. They always do, I told him. They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said. Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up. Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try. Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath? The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed. But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't that dirty. The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the thing on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it. I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee. It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked. Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash. You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently. I was knocked to my knees. Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings. Which areyou? Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth. What is Doc's full name? I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior. From the bed, Doc said a word. Son. Then he disappeared. I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what. He didn't use that, Andre said. So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the thing he left. The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the Book of Dyzan or the Book of Thoth or the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan or the Necronomican itself on human beings? But they don't exist, I said wearily. Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought. The North American government has to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians. Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands. I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel thing fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew. Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it. I kicked the thing to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now. Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me. I'm glad, she said. Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief? I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed it because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident. Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.

The story first begins with Doc and Kevin going to a flophouse three doors down from where Doc has his confrontation. As they turn around the corner, many Martian tourists walk by. The flophouse door is fly-specked, and a tubercular clerk is sitting in a gaudy comics section. The room they later go to is six feet in all directions with five feet high walls. The other foot is finished in chickenwire; there is also a wino singing on the left, wino praying on the right, and a door with no lock. There is also a gray-brown cot that Kevin lays Doc on, and a light bulb for light. Kevin also sits in a chair; the floor is littered and uncovered. The knob of the door is slick with greasy dirt. Later, Kevin goes out to the streets. They go to a restaurant, where he sits at the counter with a cup of coffee. There is also a stool for Miss Casey to sit in next to his stool. As he leaves, he notices that there is nobody on the sidewalks. Kevin describes himself opening the door to an amber world and then an azure one. Neon light also comes from the chickenwire border of the room, from a window somewhere beyond. When Kevin brings back food to the flophouse, he mentions that there are rats in the walls. Inside his mind, one man sits on an ornate armchair. Another man is sprawled in the other chair. Later, as Kevin goes back to reality, the confrontation between Miss Casey, Andre, and him happens in the same room with Doc still on the cot.