Early del Rey 
LESTER DEL KEY 
DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC. GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK 
"Tht Fihhful," copyright 1938 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Astounding Scltnct Fiction. April 1938 
"Grot* of Fire," copyright 1939 by Weird Tales, for Weird Tales, April 1939 
"Anything," copyright 1939 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for Unknown,

Octo-btr 1939 

"Hibto," copyright 1939 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for AstoundingScience Fiction. November 1939 
Th» Smallest God," copyright 1940 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Astounding Scttnci Fiction, January 1940 

"Th« Stare Look Down," copyright 1940 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.,
for Astounding Science Fiction, August 1940 
"Doubled In Brats," copyright 1940 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Unknown, January 1940 

"Reincarnate," copyright 1940 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., forAstounding Scltnct Fiction, April 1940 
"Carillon of Skulls," copyright 1941 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Unknown, February 1941 

"Done Without Eagles," copyright 1940 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.,
for Astounding Science Fiction, August 1940 
"My Name Is Legion," copyright 1942 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Astounding Science Fiction, June 1942 

"Though Poppies Grow," copyright 1942 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.,
for Unknown Worlds, August 1942 
"Lunar Landing," copyright 1942 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Astounding Science Fiction, October 1942 

"Fifth Freedom," copyright 1943 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., forAstounding Science Fiction, May 1943 
"Whom the Gods Love," copyright 1943 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for

Astounding Science Fiction, June 1943 

"Though Dreamers Die," copyright 1944 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.,
for Astounding Science Fiction, February 1944 
"Fool's Errand," copyright 1951 by Columbia Publications, Inc., for Science

Fiction Quarterly, November 1951 
"The One-eyed Man," copyright 1945 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., for 


Astounding Science Fiction, May 1945 

"And the Darkness," copyright 1950, by Avon Periodicals, Inc., for Out of ThisWorld Adventures, July 1950 
"Shadows of Empire," copyright 1950 by Columbia Publications, Inc., for Future

Combined with Science Fiction Stories, July-August 1950 

"Unreasonable Facsimile," copyright 1952 by Columbia Publications, Inc., forFuture Science Fiction, July 1952 
"Conditioned Reflex," copyright 1951 by Columbia Publications, Inc., for

Future Combined with Science Fiction Stories, May 1951 

"Over the Top," copyright 1949 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc., forAstounding Science Fiction, November 1949 
"Wind Between the Worlds," copyright 1951 by Galaxy Publishing Corp., for

Galaxy Science Fiction, March 1951 

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 
To the memory of 
John W. Campbell, a great editor, who taught me to -write. 
And to Howard DeVore, who proved himself a friend. 
Copyright © 1975 by Lester del Rey 
All Rights Reserved Printed in the Upited States of America 
Contents 
Parti 

1. THE FAITHFUL 
2. CROSS OF FIRE 
3. ANYTHING 
4. HABIT 
5. THE SMALLEST GOD 
6. THE STARS LOOK DOWN 
7. DOUBLED IN BRASS 
8. REINCARNATE 
9. CARILLON OF SKULLS 
10. DONE WITHOUT EAGLES 

11. MY NAME IS LEGION 
12. THOUGH POPPIES GROW Part II 
13. LUNAR LANDING 
14. FIFTH FREEDOM 
15. WHOM THE GODS LOVE 
16. THOUGH DREAMERS DIE 
17. FOOL'S ERRAND 
18. THE ONE-EYED MAN 
19. AND THE DARKNESS 
20. SHADOWS OF EMPIRE 
21. UNREASONABLE FACSIMILE 
22. CONDITIONED REFLEX 
23. OVER THE TOP 
24. WIND BETWEEN THE WORLDS 
APPENDIX 
Part I 

The Early del Rey 

I never had any serious intention of being a writer until I found that I wasone by a sort of slip of the lip. And for thirteen years after I made my firstsale, I never considered myself a professional writer. Putting words on paperwas just a (sometimes) lucrative hobby to fall back on when I wasn't doingsomething else. Even today, after thirty-seven years of selling stories, withabout forty books and several million words in print, I can't get ascompulsive about writing as I ihould. 

I am a compulsive reader, however, and always have been. That began during myfirst year of schooling when a marvelous teacher taught me to read well beforeI could even pronounce many of the words correctly. There were no extensivemagazine stands or good libraries in the little farming community ofsoutheastern Minnesota where I grew up. But I was lucky. My father had anexcellent home library. I ploughed my way happily through the complete worksof Darwin, Gibbons' Decline and Fall, and the marvelous works of Jules Verneand H. G. Wells. I learned to enjoy Shakespeare without really knowing thedifference between a play and a novel. And I spent about equal time goingthrough the Bible several times and reading the collected works of RobertIngersoll. 

By all the standard criteria, I should have had a miserable childhood. Weoften moved from one poor farm to another—acting as northern sharecroppers, if 


you like—and there were plenty of times when we didn't have much to eat. I wasexpected to do most of a man's hard manual labor in the woods and fields fromthe age of nine. But the truth is that I look back on it all as a very happyperiod. And reading had a lot to do with that, along with a deep sense ofemotional security given by my father. Also, there were many times when thedollar-a-day wage I earned when working with my father was supplemented by thekind loan of some popular work of fiction from the farmer for whom we worked.
I read a lot of books after I should have been sleeping, with no light otherthan full moonlight! People also saved their used magazines and gave them tome. 

In 1927, when I was barely twelve, my father moved to a small town where Icould have a chance to attend high school, and my horizons were suddenlybroadened by the availability of books and magazines from quite a good locallibrary. It was there I discovered the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs, as wellas quite a few 

early works that could be called science fiction. Then when a friend lent me a1929 copy of Wonder Stories Quarterly, I became a total addict to that branchof literature. I left the familiar Earth behind and explored the craters ofthe Moon and walked the dead sea bottoms of dying Mars—and I never fullyreturned from those trips. 

This isn't going to be a biography. I intend consistently in theseintroductory and commentary passages to skim over things and avoid a lot ofnames and events that aren't relevant to my purpose—which is to show thedevelopment of a writer of science fiction. But I have to state that my lifewasn't all introverted seclusion and reading; that pattern seems to fit anumber of those who did become science fiction fans and writers, but it neverapplied to me. I had my circle of friends, and sports were as much a part ofmy life as reading and working. I was always small and thin, but I managed tobe chosen pitcher in baseball or quarterback in football for our informal backlot games. In winter, skating and skiing were constant sources of pleasure.
And I managed to indulge in at least the normal amount of damfool youthfulfollies! 

In the last year of high school, I began writing—but hardly for the usualreason. I had managed to save up ten dollars for an old Remington #2typewriter—the kind that required the typist to lift the cylinder to see whatwas written underneath. And the company that sold it had graciously included aten-cent manual of touch typing, which I mastered in a few weeks. That left mewith the problem of finding something to do with the machine I'd coveted solong. I solved it by inventing stories to type out—including a very longnovel. But I never took them seriously, or bothered to submit them. I'd readtoo much good fiction not to know that my results were pretty dreadful,
despite what my friends dutifully told me. The stories were fun and theyimproved my typing. That was enough reward. 

But they led to some surprising other results. I never expected to go tocollege. Few people from my background in those days went beyond high school.
Besides, while my grades were good, they weren't exceptional. But my oldfriend, the librarian, had seen some of my fiction. She was determined that Imust go on to further education. I have no idea how long she worked at herproject, but she succeeded. She traced down a long-forgotten uncle of mine whoedited a weekly labor newspaper in Washington, D.C., and secured his readypromise that I could live with him. Then she managed to secure a partialscholarship for me at George Washington University. So, in 1931, at the age of 


sixteen, I headed eastward in search of higher education. I never went back,
as it turned out. 

I'm afraid the eventual outcome must have disappointed that rather remarkablelady. Living with my uncle was an altogether happy experience, and I enjoyedbeing in Washington—particularly when I discovered that the Library ofCongress had all those books that had been only titles to me before. Therewere also newsstands near me where I could get all the gaudy, marvelousscience fiction magazines. But my college education fizzled out. 

I simply dropped out after two years. Except for the science courses, I foundmost of the studies just a repeat of what I'd learned in high school. Andgenerally, I discovered that it took me a year in school to learn what I couldmaster by myself in a few weeks. So I quit and went to work as a juniorbilling clerk for a plumbing company —a decision which I still regard as oneof the best I've ever made. 

I wasn't exactly a success as a billing clerk. I got along fine with the useof the Comptometer, as with any machine; I wasn't as seriously devoted to therest of the job. But I coasted along for a few years before the company caughtup with me and let me go. Then I drifted along, selling magazines, working inrestaurants, and so on. My major achievement was becoming a well-known sciencefiction fan, for whatever that was worth. I wrote long letters to the editorsof the magazines, pointing out the errors in science and criticizing thestories, and had the joy of seeing them all printed and commented on by otherfans. Thus I achieved my first taste of petty fame! 

So we come at last to December 1937—a period of hiatus between the GreatDepression and World War II. I was twenty-two years old and feeling a lotolder, since my health had been miserable for some time, though it was nowfinally improving. I was living in a tiny rented room near Washington Circle,
for which I paid three dollars a week. My closet was outside the room, thebathroom was down the hall, and my typewriter had to sit on a makeshift deskon the window-sill. My income was erratic; I made perhaps ten dollars a weekon the average, mostly from research on the history of music at the Library ofCongress. 

But I had a lot of leisure for all the things that I most enjoyed. (I think mychief hobby at the time was working on a system of machine shorthand whichwould produce notes that could be read by almost any typist—unlike Stenotypy.
Eventually, I perfected it, too, though I never did anything with it.) I alsomanaged to get all the science fiction magazines as they came out. 

I was busy reading one of those a few days before Christmas when my girlfriend dropped by to see me. She lived a couple of blocks away, and thelandlady knew her and liked her enough to let her go 

up to my room unannounced. So she appeared just as I was throwing the magazinerather forcibly onto the floor. I still do that sometimes when a storyirritates me, though I'm somewhat more tolerant now. 

I can't remember why I was so disgusted. The story was one by Manly WadeWellman, "Pithecanthropus Rejectus," in the January 1938 issue of AstoundingStones, in which normal human beings were unsuccessfully imitated by an ape; Isuspect my dislike was at the unsuccessful part of the idea. (Sam Moskowitz,
in a profile of me, listed an entirely different story by the same writer,
though I told him the correct title. I suspect he assumed it couldn't have 


been a story in the January issue if I read it in December—but he should haveknown that magazines normally came out long before their date of issue.) 

Anyhow, my girl friend wanted to know what all the fuss was about, and Iresponded with a long and overly impassioned diatribe against the story. Inreturn, I got the most irritating question a critic can receive: "What makesyou think you have the right to judge writers when you can't write a storyyourself?" 

My expostulations on the great critics who couldn't write fiction got nowhere. 

"So what makes you think I can't write?" I wanted to know. 

"Prove it," she answered. 

That was something of a stopper. But I couldn't back down at that stage. Soeventually, I talked her down to admitting that maybe even successful writerscouldn't sell every story, and that if I could get a personal letter from theeditor, rather than a standard rejection slip, I would win the bet. 

When she left, I sat down to do a little hard thinking. I was pretty sure Icould win, partly because I knew that John W. Campbell had just been madeeditor of the magazine; I'd written some very nice things about his stories inmy letters to the editor, and I was sure he'd remember my name, which wouldhelp. That was cheating, a bit, but I still didn't think the challenge wasfair, either. Anyhow, I'd stuck my lip out, and now I had to make good: I havealways enjoyed challenges, and I meant to enjoy this one. 

Well, I'd read an amazing number of articles on how to write fiction in theold Writers' Digest—splendid articles by many of my favorite pulp writers. I'dread them because it helped me to enjoy their fiction even more, but I musthave learned something out of them. And I'd also come up with a number ofideas for stories during the years of reading. I hadn't written any of themdown, even in notes, but I remembered the best of them. 

In the end, however, I decided that the best idea was to rebut the 

story I'd disliked by writing one in which man failed and some other animaltook over. Wellman had used an ape, so I chose dogs as my hopefuls. So far asI could remember, few science fiction stories had used dogs, though a lot hadmessed around with the apes. 

During that evening and the next day, I figured out what I hoped was a plot.
Then I sat down at my old three-row Oliver and began writing steadily. It tookme about three hours to finish. And looking at the results, I wasn't at allhappy. It was too wordy in style, and too long. I knew that editors get toomany long stories and are usually most interested in fiction that is underfive thousand words in length. Mine ran to eight thousand. So I sat down witha pencil and began slashing out and shortening. When I finished, I had onlyfour thousand words left, but the results were much better. I'd also learned atremendous amount about the art of writing fiction—so much that I never had toresort to that business of slashing again; thereafter, I slashed mentally as Iwent along. 

So I shoved the old 1909 Oliver under the bed and dragged out my modern four-
row Woodstock. (There was something about the old machine that suited it forcomposing; but the Woodstock made much neater copy.) I retyped the story 


neatly in approved form, put it in an envelope with the required stamped,
return-address envelope, and mailed it off to John W. Campbell the day beforeChristmas, 

1937


The story was entitled "The Faithful," and I thought it a little too simple tosell, but good enough to get a personal letter. 

J. 
The Faithful 

(by Lester del Rey) 

Today, in a green and lovely world, here in the mightiest of human cities, thelast of the human race is dying. And we of Man's creation are left to mournhis passing, and to worship the memory of Man, who controlled all that he knewsave only himself. 

I am old, as my people go, yet my blood is still young and my life may go onfor untold ages yet, if what this last of Men has told me 

is true. And that also is Man's work, even as we and the Ape-People are hiswork in the last analysis. We of the Dog-People are old, and have lived a longtime with Man. And yet, but for Roger Stren, we might still be baying at themoon and scratching the fleas from our hides, or lying at the ruins of Man'sempire in dull wonder at his passing. 

There are earlier records of dogs who mouthed clumsily a few Man words, butHunger was the pet of Roger Stren, and in the labored efforts at speech, hesaw an ideal and a life work. The operation on Hunger's throat and mouth,
which made Man-speech more nearly possible, was comparatively simple. Thesearch for other "talking" dogs was harder. 

But he found five besides Hunger, and with this small start he began.
Selection and breeding, surgery and training, gland implantation and X-raymutation were his methods, and he made steady progress. At first money was aproblem, but his pets soon drew attention and commanded high prices. 

When he died, the original six had become thousands, and he had watched overthe raising of twenty generations of dogs. A generation of my kind then tookonly three years. He had seen his small backyard pen develop into a hugeinstitution, with a hundred followers and students, and had found the worldeager for his success. Above all, he had seen tail-wagging give place tolimited speech in that short time. 

The movement he had started continued. At the end of two thousand years, wehad a place beside Man in his work that would have been inconceivable to RogerStren himself. We had our schools, our houses, our work with Man, and asociety of our own. Even our independence, when we wanted it. And our lifespan 
was not fourteen, but fifty years or more. 

Man, too, had traveled a long way. The stars were almost within his grasp. Thebarren moon had been his for centuries. Mars and Venus lay beckoning, and hehad reached them twice, but not to return. That lay close at hand. Almost, Manhad conquered the universe. 


But he had not conquered himself. There had been many setbacks to his progressbecause he had to go out and kill others of his kind. And now, the memory ofhis past called again, and he went out in battle against himself. Citiescrumbled to dust, the plains to the south became barren deserts again, Chicagolay covered in a green mist. That death killed slowly, so that Man fled fromthe city and died, leav


ing it an empty place. The mist hung there, clinging days, months, years—afterMan had ceased to be. 

I, too, went out to war, driving a plane built for my people, over the citiesof the Rising Star Empire. The tiny atomic bombs fell from my ship on houses,
on farms, on all that was Man's, who had made my race what it was. For my Menhad told me I must fight. 

Somehow, I was not killed. And after the last Great Drive, when hnlf of Manwas already dead, I gathered my people about me, and we followed to the North,
where some of my Men had turned to find a sanctuary from the war. Of Man'swork, three cities still stood— wrapped in the green mist, and useless. AndMan huddled around little fires and hid himself in the forest, hunting hisfood in small clans. Yet hardly a year of the war had passed. 

For a time, the Men and my people lived in peace, planning to rebuild what hadbeen, once the war finally ceased. Then came the Plague. The anti-toxin whichhad been developed was ineffective as the Plague increased in its virulency.
It spread over land and sea, gripped Man who had invented it, and killed him.
It was like a strong dose of strychnine, leaving Man to die in violent crampsand retchings. 

For a brief time, Man united against it, but there was no control.
Remorselessly it spread, even into the little settlement they had founded inthe north. And I watched in sorrow as my Men around me were seized with itsagony. Then we of the Dog-People were left alone in a shattered world fromwhence Man had vanished. For weeks we labored at the little radio we could 
operate, but there was no answer; and we knew that Man was dead. 

There was little we could do. We had to forage our food as of old, andcultivate our crops in such small way as our somewhat modified forepawspermitted. And the barren north country was not suited to us. 

I gathered my scattered tribes about me, and we began the long trek' south. Wemoved from season to season, stopping to plant our food in the spring, huntingin the fall. As our sleds grew old and broke down, we could not replace them,
and our travel became even slower. Sometimes we came upon our kind in smallerpacks. Most of them had gone back to savagery, and these we had to mold to usby force. But little by little, growing in size, we drew south. We sought Men;
for fifty thousand years we of the Dog-People had lived with and for Man, andwe knew no other life. 

In the wilds of what had once been Washington State we came 

upon another group who had not fallen back to the law of tooth and fang. Theyhad horses to work for them, even crude harnesses and machines which theycould operate. There we stayed for some ten years, setting up a government andbuilding ourselves a crude city. Where Man had his hands, we had to inventwhat could be used with our poor feet and our teeth. But we had found a sort 


of security, and had even acquired some of Man's books by which we could teachour young. 

Then into our valley came a clan of our people, moving west, who told us theyhad heard that one of our tribes sought refuge and provender in a mighty cityof great houses lying by a lake in the east. I could only guess that it wasChicago. Of the green mist they had not heard—only that life was possiblethere. 

Around our fires that night we decided that if the city were habitable, therewould be homes and machines designed for us. And it might be there were Men,
and the chance to bring up our young in the heritage which was theirbirthright. For weeks we labored in preparing ourselves for the long march toChicago. We loaded our supplies in our crude carts, hitched our animals tothem, and began the eastward trip. 

It was nearing winter when we camped outside the city, still mighty andimposing. In the sixty years of the desertion, nothing had perished that wecould see; the fountains to the west were still playing, run by automaticengines. 

We advanced upon the others in the dark, quietly. They were living in a greatsquare, littered with filth, and we noted that they had not even fire leftfrom civilization. It was a savage fight, while it lasted, with no quartergiven nor asked. But they had sunk too far, in the lazy shelter of Man's city,
and the clan was not as large as we had heard. By the time the sun rose therewas not one of them but had been killed or imprisoned until we could trainthem in our ways. The ancient city was ours, the green mist gone after allthose years. 

Around us were abundant provisions, the food factories which I knew how torun, the machines that Man had made to fit our needs, the houses in which wecould dwell, power drawn from the bursting core of the atom, which needed onlythe flick of a switch to start. Even without hands, we could live here inpeace and security for ages. Perhaps here my dreams of adapting our feet tohandle Man's tools and doing his work were possible, even if no Men werefound. 

We cleared the muck from the city and moved into Greater South Chicago, whereour people had had their section of the city. I, and a 

few of the elders who had been taught by their fathers in the ways of Man, setup the old regime, and started the great water and light machines. We hadreturned to a life of certainty. 

And four weeks later, one of my lieutenants brought Paul Kenyon before me.
Man! Real and alive, after all this time! He smiled, and I motioned my eagerpeople away. 

"I saw your lights," he explained. "I thought at first some men had come back,
but that is not to be; but civilization still has its followers, evidently, soI asked one of you to take me to the leaders. Greetings from all that is leftof Man!" 

"Greetings," I gasped. It was like seeing the return of the gods. My breathwas choked; a great peace and fulfillment surged over me. "Greetings, and theblessings of your God. I had no hope of seeing Man again." 


He shook his head. "I am the last. For fifty years I have been searching forMen—but there are none. Well, you have done well. I should like to live amongyou, work with you—when I can. I survived the Plague somehow, but it comes onme yet, more often now, and I can't move nor care for myself then. That is whyI have come to you. 

"Funny." He paused. "I seem to recognize you. Hunger Beowulf XIV? I am PaulKenyon. Perhaps you remember me? No? Well, it was a long time, and you wereyoung. Perhaps my smell has changed with the disease. But that white streakunder the eye still shows, and I remember you." 

I needed no more to complete my satisfaction at his homecoming. 

Now one had come among us with hands, and he was of great help. But most ofall, he was of the old Men, and gave point to our working. But often, as hehad said, the old sickness came over him, and he lay in violent convulsions,
from which he was weak for days. We learned to care for him, and help him whenhe needed it, even as we learned to fit our society to his presence. And atlast, he came to me with a suggestion. 

"Hunger," he said, "if you had one wish, what would it be?" 

"The return of Man. The old order, where we could work together. You know aswell as I how much we need Man." 

He grinned crookedly. "Now, it seems, Man needs you more. But if that weredenied, what next?" 

"Hands," I said. "I dream of them at night and plan for them by day, but Iwill never see them." 

"Maybe you will, Hunger. Haven't you ever wondered why you go on living, twicenormal age, in the prime of your life? Have you never 

wondered how I have withstood the Plague which still runs in my blood, and howI still seem only in my thirties, though nearly seventy years have passedsince a Man has been born?" 

"Sometimes," I answered. "I have no time for wonder, now, and when I do—Man isthe only answer I know." 

"A good answer," he said. "Yes, Hungor, Man is the answer. That is why Iremember you. Three years before the war, when you were just reachingmaturity, you came into my laboratory. Do you remember now?" 

"The experiment," I said. "That is why you remembered me?" 

"Yes, the experiment. I altered your glands somewhat, implanted certaintissues into your body, as I had done to myself. I was seeking the secret ofimmortality. Though there was no reaction at the time, it worked, and I don'tknow how much longer we may live—or you may; it helped me resist the Plague,
but did not overcome it." 

So that was the answer. He stood staring at me a long time. "Yes, unknowingly,
I saved you to carry on Man's future for him. But we were talking of hands. 


"As you know, there is a great continent to the east of the Americas, calledAfrica. But did you know Man was working there on the great apes, as he wasworking here on your people? We never made as much progress with them as withyou. We started too late. Yet they spoke a simple language and served forcommon work. And we changed their hands so the thumb and fingers opposed, asdo mine. There, Hungor, are your hands." 

Now Paul Kenyon and I laid plans carefully. Out in the hangars of the citythere were aircraft designed for my people's use; heretofore, I had seen noneed of using them. The planes were in good condition, we found onexamination, and my early training came back to me as I took the first shipup. They carried fuel to circle the globe ten times, and out in the lake thebig fuel tanks could be drawn on when needed. 

Together, though he did most of the mechanical work between spells ofsickness, we stripped the planes of all their war equipment. Of the sixhundred planes, only two were useless, and the rest would serve to carry sometwo thousand passengers in addition to the pilots. If the apes had reverted tocomplete savagery, we were equipped with tanks of anesthetic gas by which wecould overcome them and strap them in the planes for the return. In the housesaround us, we built accommodations for them strong enough to hold them byforce, but designed for their comfort if they were peaceable. 

At first, I had planned to lead the expedition. But Paul Kenyon pointed outthat they would be less likely to respond to us than to him. "After all," hesaid, "Men educated them and cared for them, and they probably remember usdimly. But your people they know only as the wild dogs who are their enemies.
I can go out and contact their leaders, guarded, of course, by your people.
But otherwise, it might mean battle." 

Each day I took up a few of our younger ones in the planes and taught them tohandle the controls. As they were taught, they began the instruction ofothers. It was a task which took months to finish, but my people knew the needof hands as well as I; any faint hope was well worth trying. 

It was late spring when the expedition set out. I could follow their progressby means of television, but could work the controls only with difficulty.
Kenyon, of course, was working the controls at the other end, when he wasable. 

They met with a storm over the Atlantic Ocean, and three of the ships wentdown. But under the direction of my lieutenant and Kenyon, the rest weatheredthe storm. They landed near the ruins of Capetown, but found no trace of theApe-People. Then began weeks of scouting over the jungles and plains. They sawapes, but on capturing a few they found them only the primitive creatureswhich nature had developed. 

It was by accident they finally met with success. Camp had been made for thenight, and fires had been lit to guard against the savage beasts which roamedthe land. Kenyon was in one of his rare moments of good health. The telecasterhad been set up in a tent near the outskirts of the camp, and he wasbroadcasting a complete account of the day. Then, abruptly, over the head ofthe Man was raised a rough and (haggy face. 

He must have seen the shadow, for he started to turn sharply, then caughthimself and moved slowly around. Facing him was one of thS apes. He stoodthere silently, watching the ape, not knowing whether it was savage or well 


disposed. It, too, hesitated; then it advanced. 

"Man—Man," it mouthed. "You came back. Where were you? I am Tolemy, and I sawyou, and I came." 

"Tolemy," said Kenyon, smiling. "It is good to see you, Tolemy. Sit down; letus talk. I am glad to see you. Ah, Tolemy, you look old; were your father andmother raised by Man?" 

"I am eighty years, I think. It is hard to know. I was raised by Man long ago.
And now I am old; my people say I grow too old to lead. 

They do not want me to come to you, but I know Man. He was good to me. And hehad coffee and cigarettes." 

"I have coffee and cigarettes, Tolemy." Kenyon smiled. "Wait, I will get them.
And your people, is not life hard among them in the jungle? Would you like togo back with me?" 

"Yes, hard among us. I want to go back with you. Are you many?" 

"No, Tolemy." He set the coffee and cigarettes before the ape, who drankeagerly and lit the smoke gingerly from a fire. "No, but I have friends withme. You must bring your people here, and let us get to be friends. Are theremany of you?" 

"Yes. Ten times we make ten tens—a thousand of us, almost. We are all that wasleft in the city of Man after the great fight. A Man freed us, and I led mypeople away, and we lived here in the jungle. They wanted to be in smalltribes, but I made them one, and we are safe. Food is hard to find." 

"We have much food in a big city, Tolemy, and friends who will help you, ifyou work for them. You remember the Dog-People, don't you? And you would workwith them as with Man if they treated you as Man treated you, and fed you, andtaught your people?" 

"Dogs? I remember the Man-Dogs. They were good. But here the dogs are bad. Ismelled dog here; it was not like the dog we smell each day, and my nose wasnot sure. I will work with Man-Dogs, but my people will be slow to learnthem." 

Later telecasts showed rapid progress. I saw the apes come in by twos andthrees and meet Paul Kenyon, who gave them food, and introduced my people tothem. This was slow, but as some began to lose their fear of us, others wereeasier to train. Only a few broke away and would not come. 

Cigarettes that Man was fond of—but which my people never used —were a help,
since they learned to smoke with great readiness. 

It was months before they returned. When they came, there were over ninehundred of the Ape-People with them, and Paul and Tolemy had begun theireducation. Our first job was a careful medical examination of Tolemy, but itshowed him in good health, and with much of the vigor of a younger ape. Manhad been lengthening the ages of his kind, as it had ours, and he wasevidently a complete success. 


Now they have been among us three years, and during that time we have taughtthem to use their hands at our instructions. Overhead, the great monorail carsare running, and the factories have started to work again. They are quick tolearn, with a curiosity that makes them 

eager for new knowledge. And they are thriving and multiplying here. We needno longer bewail the lack of hands; perhaps in time to come, with their help,
we can change our forepaws further, and learn to walk on two legs, as did Man. 

Today, I have come back from the bed of Paul Kenyon. We are often togethernow—perhaps I should include the faithful Tolemy— when he can talk, and amongus there has grown a great friendship. I laid certain plans before him todayfor adapting the apes mentally and physically until they are Men. Nature didit with an apelike brute once; why can we not do it with the Ape-People now?
The Earth would be peopled again, science would rediscover the stars, and Manwould have a foster child in his own likeness. 

And—we of the Dog-People have followed Man for fifty thousand ' cars. That istoo long to change. Of all Earth's creatures, the Dog-I 'cople alone havefollowed Man thus. My people cannot lead now. No i log was ever completewithout the companionship of Man. The Ape-I'cople will be Man. 

It is a pleasant dream, surely not an impossible one. 

Kenyon smiled as I spoke to him, and cautioned me in the jesting way he useswhen most serious, not to make them too much like Man, lest another Plaguedestroy them. Well, we can guard against that. I think he, too, had a dream ofMan reborn, for there was a hint of tears in his eyes, and he seemed pleasedwith me. 

There is but little to please him now, alone among us, wracked by pain,
waiting the slow death he knows must come. The old trouble has grown worse,
and the Plague has settled harder on him. 

All we can do is give him sedatives to ease the pain now, though Tolemy and Ihave isolated the Plague we found in his blood. It seems a form of cholera,
and with that information, we have done some work. The old Plague serum offersa clue, too. Some of our serurm have seemed to ease the spells a little, butthey have not stopped (hem. 

It is a faint chance. I have not told him of our work, for only a itroke ofluck will give us success before he dies. 

Man is dying. Here in our laboratory, Tolemy keeps repeating something; aprayer, I think it is. Well, maybe the God whom he has learned from Man willbe merciful, and grant us success. 

Paul Kenyon is all that is left of the old world which Tolemy and I loved. Helies in the ward, moaning in agony, and dying. Sometimes he looks from hiswindows and sees the birds flying south; he gazes 

at them as if he would never see them again. Well, will he? Something hemuttered once comes back to me: "For no man knoweth—" 


I'd read enough about manuscripts from unknown writers to expect a long delaybefore I received any notice of my story. But to my surprise, there was anenvelope from Astounding Stories in the mail of January 8. And it was a smallenvelope, instead of the large return one I had sent to hold my manuscript.
There was no personal letter from the editor—but there was a check for $40. 

It's a little hard to find the right word to describe my reaction. Perhapsecstatic delight is the best description; and from other writers, I've heardthat this is a sort of standard, normal feeling. There seems to be somethingabout having one's first work of fiction accepted for publication that is notequaled by any other success on earth! 

Naturally, I called the girl friend, who agreed that I'd won the bet—and whonever again questioned my right to throw a magazine across the room! Then Icalled my uncle, who had sold a lot of pulp fiction himself; I think hisreaction was fully the equal to mine when he finally figured out what I wassaying. 

But I was far too practical to frame the check; that got cashed at once,
leaving me with more money in one lump than I'd had for several months. Andthen the second reaction began. How long had all this been going on? Fortydollars was a lot of money in those days; and I'd earned it for only a coupleof days of fairly easy work that had been fun. Aha! Mr. World, here I come! 

So I finished my fiddling with my current hobby in a few more days—I neverseem to have believed in letting important things interfere with even moreimportant ones—and settled down to work. 

Naturally, I wasn't content to do another nice, simple, direct story. As a manwho'd sold a story, I was ready for tougher duty. So I scrounged around in myold ideas and picked the worst possible choice. It was that of a man who comesback in a time machine to take his younger self into the future to steal amachine which that future credits to him. Then he returns to wait thirty yearsand go pick up his younger self. Both the invention and time machine can'tever have been built in the first place, since they go round and round intime. And to top it all off, I'd figured the idea out as one which could betold in second person, instead of the normal third person or occasional first-
person style. 

It took a lot of hard thinking, and I even made a bunch of notes and wrotedown quite a few paragraphs in advance to keep it logical. Then I sat down andspent three days writing and recopying it. (For years, I always typed thingsout and then retyped them on another typewriter, correcting minor slips, butnever rewriting.) As an established writer, I used the maximum usual length ofa short story, 6,000 words. Then I sent it out, fairly sure that its ingenuityand difference would insure its sale. 

This time, a personal note from the editor came back—along with the story.
Campbell said it was well written, but he wasn't interested in stories thatjust went around in a circle of time. (This was before Robert Heinlein did hissuperb "By His Bootstraps," which was at least as circuitous as my story, buta lot better.) 

So I threw the story in a drawer and largely forgot it. Why I never sent it—orany rejects, before I got an agent—to other editors, I don't really know.
Perhaps because I considered Astounding the best maga-rine, I wasn'tinterested in selling to any other. But I've found that most young writers 


make the same mistake of not exhausting all markets. Every article on writingoffers one piece of invaluable advice to writers: When a story comes back,
send it out immediately to the next market, and keep sending it until thereare no possible markets left. But few writers obey the rule, and I was one ofthe first-degree offenders. 

Eventually, the manuscript was lost, along with eleven others. But in 1950,
much to my surprise, I found an envelope among my old papers which containedthose notes and preliminary paragraphs. With those, I rewrote it; and since ithad been a very careful job in the first place, I feel sure that I rememberedit well enough to make It almost identical to its first form. I titled it "AndIt Comes Out Here," from the song "The Music Goes Down and Around," and sentIt to Galaxy magazine, where Horace Gold immediately bought it. If anyone iscurious, it can be found in the Ballantine collection of my •tones entitledMortals and Monsters. (Ballantine published four of luch collections of myworks, as indicated in the Appendix. The Itories I am including here are theones which were not so collected.) 

Campbell also suggested that I try him again. That seemed like a good idea, soI set about it. But nothing so simple as a short story this time; I decided ona novelette of 12,000 words, long enough to make up for the one that didn'tsell. It was entitled "Ice" and dealt with men who mined for water ice under 
the frozen carbon-dioxide snow 

of the Martian poles—replete with tiny Martians and a giant Martian who was arather sympathetic menace. 

It took more than a week for that to come back, and the letter from Campbellwas highly complimentary. "I like the way you write," he commented. And thatwas highly flattering to me, since I'd been more worried about style thancontent, along with most beginners. 

But I figured that was all, thank you. I'd heard too often of the one-storywriter—the man who could sell one story and no more. Quite possibly, suchwriters outnumber those who can repeat, and the tragedy of their continualattempts is very real. So I'd adopted a simple rule, to which I clung foryears: Three strikes are out! Any time I received three rejections in a row, Iwould quit writing. And this time, while there had been only two rejections,
one of them counted double because of its length. There was no point inbothering myself or Campbell with further efforts. 

So I turned back to other things. It was a pleasure to see my story in print,
of course, and I read every word of it. I still read every story when it firstcomes out in print. Somehow, things always read differently from what they doin manuscript, and I've learned a good deal about my faults and virtues fromsuch rereading. But my previous poor health was improving, as was my incomeslightly, and I put the idea of being a writer behind me without too manyregrets. 

Then came a letter from Campbell, which I can almost quote from memory: "Yourstory was darned well received, del Rey, and it's been moving up steadily inthe readers' choice. But as I look through my inventory, I don't find anythingmore by you. I hope you'll remedy this." 

Well, when an editor sends a very nice note with a rejection, he may be onlysoftening the blow. But when he takes the trouble to ask for another story,
maybe that's something else. Still, I checked up in the Anlab—a department 


where the preference of the readers was tabulated. I came in fourth, whichwasn't too good. I debated the matter with myself for several days, butfinally decided the letter gave me enough excuse for one more try! 

This time, I was a little more cautious and sensible. I went out and bought acopy of the Writers' Digest where I could find the requirements Campbelllisted for his magazine. It wasn't much help, except for a few lines: "I wantreactions rather than actions. I want human reactions. Even if your hero is arobot, he must have human reactions to make him interesting to the reader." 

Okay, what was the most human thing a robot could do? Obviously, fall madly inlove. I picked a female robot—because most mechanical robots were treated asmale—and a human male, who would be repelled by her mad crush on him; but if Imade her good enough, he couldn't keep resisting her. It was a sentimentalidea, and I chose an old-fashioned sentimental ending where the narratoradmits he also loved her. 

I called the story "Helen O'Loy" and carefully kept it down to 4,500 words. 

About a week later, I got a check for $45. That was quite a lot then, alongwith the satisfaction of proving I could please the editor. Much later, theinitial payment turned out to be only a tiny portion of the reward. The storyis considered by many—including myself—as one of my two or three best. Andhardly a year goes by now in which I don't receive four or five times theoriginal price in reprint rights. I have no clear idea of how much the storyhas paid me altogether, but the sum is more than that earned by most of theold slick stories. 

I felt somewhat better about writing, though I was too busy to give it muchtime. (I forget what I was busy with, but it took all my attention then.) Andone disturbing factor plagued me. I had sold two stories to Campbell; butthere are such things as writers who can sell one editor, but no others. Was Ione of those? 

To find out, I went outside the science fiction field. I'd read Weird Talesfor years, so I decided to try a story for them. I mulled over a vampirestory, and finally decided I had fresh enough an angle. Late in 1938, I wroteit, taking a little less than one day to do the job. It came to only 3,000words, but that was my best bet, judging from the average length of shortstories in the magazine I checked. I sent it off to the editor, FarnsworthWright, without any covering letter, and waited to see what happened. 

It came back, together with a little note pointing out that it was* aninteresting idea and well written, but seemed to have certain flaws that madeit useless to him. They were well-taken points, and I felt grateful to Mr.
Wright, who was already so stricken by Park-inson's disease that he couldbarely scrawl his initials. I sent him a brief note of thanks, and sat down torethink the story. There had been no suggestion that I try to rewrite it; Isuppose most editors have found that unknown writers can rarely handle arewrite. But I was sure I could correct the flaws. And a couple of weekslater, I sent him the revision, with a note explaining that I realized no re


write had been requested, but that his criticism had enabled me to do what Ihoped was a satisfactory revision. It was entitled "Cross of Fire." 

2. 

Cross of Fire (by Lester del Rey) 

That rain! Will it never stop? My clothes are soaked, my body frozen. But atleast the lightning is gone. Strange; I haven't seen it since I awoke. Therewas lightning, I think. I can't seem to remember anything clearly, yet I amsure there was a fork of light in the sky; no, not a fork; it was like across. 

That's silly, of course. Lightning can't form a cross. It must have been adream while I was lying there in the mud. I don't recall how I came there,
either. Perhaps I was ambushed and robbed, then left lying there until therain brought me to. But my head doesn't hurt; the pain is in my shoulder, asharp, jabbing ache. No, I couldn't have been robbed; I still have my ring,
and there is money in my pocket. 

I wish I could remember what happened. When I try to think, my brain refuses.
There is some part of it that doesn't want to remember. Now why should thatbe? There . . . No, it's gone again. It must have been another dream; it hadto be. Horrible! 

Now I must find shelter from the rain. I'll make a fire when I get home andstop trying to think until my mind is rested. Ah, I know where home is. Thiscan't be so terrible if I know that. . . . 

There, I have made a fire and my clothes are drying before it. I was right;
this is my home. And I'm Karl Hahrhoffer. Tomorrow I'll ask in the village howI came here. The people in Altdorf are my friends. Altdorf! When I am nottrying to think, things come back a little. Yes, I'll go to the villagetomorrow. I'll need food, anyway, and there are no provisions in the house. 

But that is not strange. When I arrived here, it was boarded and nailed shut,
and I spent nearly an hour trying to get in. Then my feet guided me to thecellar, and it was not locked. My muscles some


times know better than my brain. And sometimes they trick me. They would haveled me deeper into the cellar instead of up the steps to this room. 

Dust and dirt are everywhere, and the furniture seems about to fall apart. Onemight think no one had lived here for a century. Perhaps I have been away fromAltdorf a long time, but surely I can't have lived away while all thishappened. I must find a mirror. There should be one over there, but it's gone;
no matter, a tin pan of water will serve. 

Not a mirror in the house? I used to like my reflection, and found my facefine and aristocratic. I've changed. My face is but little older, but the eyesare hard, the lips thin and red, and there is something unpleasant about myexpression. When I smile, the muscles twist crookedly before they attempt myold cockiness. Sister Flamchen used to love my smile. 

There is a bright red wound on my shoulder, like a burn. It must have been thelightning, after all. Perhaps it was that cross of fire in the sky I seem toremember. It shocked my brain badly, then left me on the soggy earth until thecold revived me. 

But that does not explain the condition of the house, nor where old Fritz hasgone. Flamchen may have married and gone away, but Fritz would have stayedwith me. I may have taken him to America with me, but what became of him then? 


Yes, I was going to America before . . . before something happened. I musthave gone and been away longer than I look to have been. In ten years muchmight happen to a deserted house. And Fritz was old. Did I bury him inAmerica? 

They may know in Altdorf. The rain has stopped and there is a flush of dawn inthe sky. I'll go down soon. But now I am growing sleepy. Small wonder, withall I have been through. I'll go upstairs and sleep for a little while beforegoing to the village. The sun will be up in a few minutes. 

No, fool legs, to the left! The right leads back to the cellar, not thebedroom. Up! The bed may not be the best now, but the linens should have keptwell, and I should be able to sleep there. I can hardly keep my eyes open longenough to reach it. ... 

I must have been more tired than I thought, since it's dark again. Extremefatigue always brings nightmares, too. They've faded out, as dreams do, butthey must have been rather gruesome, from the impression left behind. And Iwoke up ravenously hungry. 

It is good that my pockets are well filled with money. It would take 

a long time to go to Edeldorf where the bank is. Now it won't be necessary forsome time. This money seems odd, but I suppose the coinage has changed while Iwas gone. How long have I been away? 

The air is cool and sweet after yesterday's rain, but the moon is hidden. I'vepicked up an aversion to cloudy nights. And something seems wrong with theroad to the village. Of course it would change, but it seems to have been anunusually great change for ten years or so. 

Ah, Altdorf! Where the Burgermeister's house was, there is now some shop witha queer pump in front of it—gasoline. Much that I cannot recall ever seeingbefore, my mind seems to recognize, even to expect. Changes all around me, yetAltdorf has not changed as greatly as I feared. There is the tavern, beyond isthe food store, and down the street is the wine shop. Excellent! 

No, I was wrong; Altdorf has not changed, but the people have. I don'trecognize any of them, and they stare at me most unpleasantly. They should bemy friends; the children should run after me for sweets. Why should they fearme? Why should that old woman cry out and draw her children into the house asI pass? Why are the lights turned out as I approach and the streets deserted?
Could I have become a criminal in America? I had no leaning toward crime. Theymust mistake me for someone else; I do look greatly different. 

The storekeeper seems familiar, but younger and altered in subtle ways fromthe one I remember. A brother, perhaps. "Don't run away, you fool! I won'thurt you. I wish only to purchase some vegetables and provisions. Let me see—
no, no beef. I am no robber, I will pay you. See, I have money." 

His face is white, his hands tremble. Why does he stare at me when I ordersuch common things? "For myself, of course. For whom else should I buy these?
My larder is empty. Yes, that will do nicely." 

If he would stop shaking; must he look back to that door so furtively? Now hisback is turned, and his hands grope up as if he were crossing himself. Does hethink one sells one's soul to the devil by going to America? 


"No, not that, storekeeper. Its color is the most nauseating red I have seen.
And some coffee and cream, some sugar, some—yes, some liverwurst and some ofthat brown sausage, but not too lean—I want only the fat. Blutwurst? No,
never. What a thought! Yes, I'll take it myself, if your boy is sick. It is along walk to my place. If you'll lend me that wagon, I'll return it tomorrow.
... All right, I'll buy it. 

"How much? No, of course I'll pay. This should cover it, if you 

won't name a price. Do I have to throw it at you? Here, I'll leave it on thecounter. Yes, you can go." 

Now why should the fool scuttle off as if I had the plague? 

That might be it. They would avoid me, of course, if I had had some contagiousdisease. Yet surely I couldn't have returned here alone, if I had been sick.
No, that doesn't explain it. 

Now the wine-dealer. He is a young man, very self-satisfied. Perhaps he willact sensibly. At least he doesn't run, though his skin blanches. "Yes, somewine." 

He isn't surprised as much as the storekeeper; wine seems a more normalrequest than groceries, it would appear. Odd. "No, white Riesling, not thered. And some of the tokay. Yes, that brand will do if you don't have theother. And a little cognac. These evenings are so cool. Your money. . . Verywell." 

He doesn't refuse the money, nor hesitate to charge double for his goods. Buthe picks it up with a hesitant gesture and then dumps the change into my handwithout counting it out. There must be something in my looks that the waterdid not reveal last night. He stands staring at me so fixedly as I draw mywagon away. Next time I shall buy a good mirror, but I have had enough of thisvillage for the time. . . . 

Night again. This morning I lay down before sunrise, expecting to catch alittle sleep before exploring the house, but again it was dark before I awoke.
Well, I have candles enough; it makes little difference whether I explore theplace by day or night. 

Hungry as I am, it seems an effort to swallow the food, and the taste is oddand unfamiliar, as if I had eaten none of it for a long time. But then,
naturally the foods in America would not be the same. I am beginning tobelieve that I was away longer than I thought. The wine is good, though. Itcourses through my veins like new life. 

And the wine dispels the lurking queerness of the nightmares. I had hoped thatmy sleep would be dreamless, but they came again, this time stronger. Some Ihalf remember. Flamchen was in one, Fritz in several. 

That is due to my being back in the old house. And because the house haschanged so unpleasantly, Fritz and Flamchen have altered into the horribletravesties I see in my dreams. 

Now to look over the house. First the attic, then the cellar. The rest of it Ihave seen, and it is little different except for its anachronistic 


appearance of age. Probably the attic will be the same, though curiosity andidleness urge me to see. 

These stairs must be fixed; the ladder looks too shaky to risk. It seems solidenough, though. Now the trapdoor—ah, it opens easily. But what is that odor?
Garlic—or the age-worn ghost of garlic. The place reeks of it; there arelittle withered bunches of it tied everywhere. 

Someone must have lived up here once. There is a bed and a table, with a fewsoiled dishes. That refuse might have been food once. And that old hat was onethat Fritz always wore. The cross on the wall and the Bible on the table wereFlamchen's. My sister and Fritz must have shut themselves up here after I wasgone. More mysteries. If that is true, they may have died here. The villagersmust know of them.-Perhaps there is one who will tell me. The wine-dealermight, for a price. 

There is little to hold me here, unless the table drawer has secrets it willsurrender. Stuck! The rust and rotten wood cannot be wrong. I must have beenaway more years than I thought. Ah, there it comes. Yes, there is somethinghere, a book of some sort. Diary of Fritz August Schmidt. This should give mea clue, if I can break the clasp. There should be tools in the workroom. 

But first I must explore the cellar. It seems strange that the doors shouldhave been open there when all the rest were so carefully nailed shut. If Icould only remember how long I've been gone! 

How easily my feet lead me down into the cellar! Well, let them have their waythis once. Perhaps they know more than my memory tells. They guided me herewell enough before. Tracks in the dust! A man's shoe print. Wait. . . Yes,
they match perfectly; they are mine. Then I came down here before the shock.
Ah, that explains the door. I came here, opened that, and walked about.
Probably I was on my way to the village when the storm came up. Yes, that mustbe it. And that explains why my legs moved so surely to the cellar entrance.
Muscular habits are hard to break. 

But why should I have stayed here so long? The tracks go in all directions,
and they cover the floor. Surely there is nothing to hold my interest here.
The walls are bare, the shelves crumbling to pieces, and not a sign ofanything unusual anywhere. No, there is something; that board shouldn't beloose, where the tracks all meet again. How easily it comes away in my hand! 

Now why should there be a pit dug out behind the wall, when the cellar isstill empty? Perhaps something is hidden here. The air is 

moldy and sickening inside. Somewhere I've smelled it before, and theassociation is not pleasant. Ah, now I can see. There's a box there, a largeone, and heavy. Inside ... A coffin, open and empty! 

Someone buried here? But that is senseless; it is empty. Too, the earth wouldhave been filled in. No, there is something wrong here. Strange things havegone on in this house while I have been away. The house is too old, thevillagers fear me, Fritz shuts himself up in the attic, this coffin is hiddenhere; somehow they must be connected. And I must find the connection. 

This was an unusually fine coffin once; the satin lining is still scarcelySoiled, except for those odd brown blotches. Mold, perhaps, though I've never 


seen it harden the cloth before; it looks more like blood. Evidently I'll notfind my connection here. But there still remains the diary. Somewhere therehas to be an answer. I'll break the clasp at once, and see if my questions aresettled there. . . . 

This time, reading and work have given me no chance to sleep through the dayas before. It is almost night again, and I am still awake. 

Yes, the diary held the answer. I have burned it now, but I could recite itfrom memory. Memory! How I hate that word! Mercifully, some things are stillonly half clear; my hope now is that I may never remember fully. How I haveremained sane this long is a miracle beyond comprehension. If I had not foundthe diary, things might. . . but better this way. 

The story is complete now. At first as I read Fritz's scrawl it was allstrange and unbelievable; but the names and events jogged my memory until Iwas living again the nightmare I read. I should have guessed before. Thesleeping by day, the age of the house, the lack of mirrors, the action of thevillagers, my appearance—a hundred things—all should have told me what I hadbeen. The story is told all too clearly by the words Fritz wrote before heleft the attic. 

My plans had been made, and I was to leave for America in three* days when Imet a stranger the villagers called the "Night Lady." Evil things had beenwhispered of her, and they feared and despised her, but I would have none oftheir superstition. For me she had an uncanny fascination. My journey wasforgotten, and I was seen with her at night until even my priest turnedagainst me. Only Fritz and Flamchen stayed with me. 

When I "died," the doctors called it anemia, but the villagers knew better.
They banded together and hunted until they found the body of the woman. On herthey used a hartshorn stake and fire. But my 

coffin had been moved; though they knew I had become a monster, they could notfind my body. 

Fritz knew what would happen. The old servant sealed himself and Flamchen inthe attic away from me. He could not give up hopes for me, though. He had atheory of his own about the Undead. "It is not death," he wrote, "but apossession. The true soul sleeps, while the demon who has entered the bodyrules instead. There must be some way to drive out the fiend without killingthe real person, as our Lord did to the man possessed. Somehow, I must findthe method." 

That was before I returned and lured Flamchen to me. Why is it that we—such asI was become—must prey always on those whom we loved? Is it not enough to liewrithing in the hell the usurper has made of our body without the addedagonies of seeing one's friends its victims? 

When Flamchen joined me in Undeath, Fritz came down from his retreat. He camewillingly if not happily to join us. Such loyalty deserved a better reward.
Wretched Flamchen, miserable Fritz! 

They came here last night, but it was almost dawn, and they had to go back.
Poor, lustful faces, pressed against the broken windows, calling me to them!
Since they have found me, they will surely be back. It is night again, andthey should be here any moment now. Let them come. My preparations are made, 


and I am ready. We have stayed together before, and will vanish togethertonight. 

A torch is lit and within reach, and the dry old floor is covered with ragsand oil to fire the place. On the table I have a gun loaded with threebullets. Two of them are of silver, and on each a cross is cut deeply. IfFritz were right, only such bullets may kill a vampire, and in all otherthings he has proved correct. 

Once I, too, should have needed the argent metal, but now this simple bit oflead will serve as well. Fritz's theory was correct. 

That cross of lightning, which drove away the demon possessing my body,
brought my real soul back to life; once a vampire, again I became a man. Butalmost I should prefer the curse to the memories it has left. 

Ah, they have returned. They are tapping at the door I have unfastened,
moaning their bloodlust as of old. 

"Come in, come in. It is not locked. See, I am ready for you. No, don't drawback from the gun. Fritz, Flamchen, you should welcome 

this. . . ." 

How peaceful they look now! Real death is so clean. But I'll drop 

the torch on the tinder, to make doubly sure. Fire is the cleanest of allthings. Then I shall join them. . . . This gun against my heart seems like anold friend; the pull of the trigger is like a soft caress. Strange. The pistolflame looks like a cross. . . . Flamchen . . . the cross ... so clean! 

Farnsworth Wright sent a charmingly gracious letter shortly after receivingthe manuscript, telling me he was happy now to accept it, and that it wouldappear in the April 1939 issue of Weird Tales, at which time I would receive acheck for $30. He was better than his word, since the check reached me severaldays in advance of publication. 

But that idea of such a delay ruined the magazine as a market for me. Icouldn't blame anyone; I should have checked up and seen that they regularlypaid on publication, not acceptance. But I had no desire to sit around waitingfor money. Maybe I'd been spoiled by the previous promptness of payments, butI still think a writer deserves payment when his goods are bought. 

A good many writers agree to the point where they will often send a manuscriptto a lower-paying market rather than wait for their payment. Publishers refuseto believe this, unfortunately, but a lot of magazines would do much better inthe market if they would pay promptly. 

However, in justice to Weird Tales, I must say that they were among the bettermagazines of their day in their treatment of writers. Some of the earlyscience fiction magazines paid rates as low as one quarter of a cent a word,
and then long after the story was published—"payment on lawsuit," as somewriters claimed. 

However, I'd satisfied my doubts about being able to sell to other editors andcould now return happily to considering Campbell as my, market. And early in1939, he sent me a letter that not only asked for a story, but suggested the 


general idea to me. He was, as I came to know, a great and creative editor.
Nobody has any idea of how many of the stories in his magazine came from ideashe suggested, but a group of us once determined that the figure must begreater than half. He had a remarkable ability to pick just the right idea fora particular writer, or to throw out the same general idea to several writersand get back entirely different stories from each of them. Part of his successprobably came from the fact that he gave just enough of an idea to inspire,
but not so much as to stifle the writer's 

own ideas. This was my first example, and it moved me to a quick response,
early in 1939. 

The idea was that maybe Neanderthaler wasn't killed off fighting Cro-Magnon,
but rather died of frustration from meeting a race with a superior culture. Ididn't exactly accept it as good anthropology, but the story took shapeeasily, and I think the 6,000 words of "The Day Is Done" came out of mytypewriter in less than two hours. It won a check for $60 and a note fromCampbell saying it was exactly what he'd hoped I'd do, and why didn't I planon doing a lot more for him in 1939? 

Curiously, this story—which was never supposed to be very scientificallyaccurate—has won considerable praise and blame for its picture of early man.
The latest example of that came when Isaac Asimov used it in a book meant fordiscussion by schoolchildren. He listed a number of points, and commented onthe fact that I'd erroneously picked up the long-discarded idea thatNeanderthal man couldn't speak. Now actually, I'd straddled that issue withgreat finesse, neither having him speak nor indicating he could not. But to mydelight, a few days after the book was published, an article in the New YorkTimes presented a new theory to show that Neanderthal man really couldn'tspeak! Naturally, I called Isaac up to inquire whether he'd read it.
Sorrowfully, he admitted he had and had been sitting there hoping I wouldn'tsee it! 

A couple of days after my sale of the story, my chief source of other incomecame to an end when the research job was finally finished. I suppose therewere other jobs where my ability to read the Romance and Teutonic languagesadequately would have been useful, but I didn't look for them. Campbell'sletter had been most encouraging, and my wants were fairly small, though I hadfinally moved to a larger room in the rooming house. This cost me five dollarsa week, but it was worth it, since it was at least four times as large as myprevious one. 

To make things even happier, Campbell sent me down a sample copy of anothermagazine he was about to edit. This was to be Unknown (later Unknown Worlds),
and to be considered by most readers as the best fantasy magazine that wasever printed. I read through that first issue with complete delight. I'dalways preferred real fantasy—as opposed to horror and weird stories—overanything else, even science fiction. And I could hardly wait to try my hand atwriting for it. The result was more haste than taste, I'm afraid. I wrotesome


thing called "A Very Simple Man," dealing with a nobody who gets mixed up withmermaids and whatnot and gives it all up in the end for his sense of duty tohis wife—and has his wife magically changed to a more pleasant person by theunderstanding mermaid. Campbell didn't like it very well, but indicated thatit might be salvaged. It was the first letter suggesting revision from him Ihad received, and was really a short course in how to write fantasy fiction. I 


wish I still had it. He had a great gift for analyzing the elements of fictionand making them plain to others. 

I read it several times, and learned at least some of the lesson, but not thepart about the difficulties with that story. I tried rewriting it, and foundit incredibly hard. That should have warned me. 

By nature, I seem to be what one might call a "glib" writer. I sweat out aplot slowly—or used to, though it comes much more easily with practice.
Mostly, I walk around the room, thinking desperately, and hoping that the backof my head will come up with something. This back-of-the-head part of me is aperson I've come to know as Henry, who sits at all the memory files andhandles all of the putting of things together. He's lazy, but very capable.
When I demand an idea of him, he always tosses the first cliche" he can findforward. But by constantly rejecting the obvious, I can usually get him tofigure out some fairly new combination; eventually, when he finds it more workto evade than to co-operate, he'll start filling in details for me. Then I goover everything in my head until it all falls into place and I know preciselywhat I want to write. Once I have my story firmly in mind, it should moverapidly, after the first false opening paragraphs. Once I have found the rightkey paragraph to set the mood for me, I like to write steadily as fast as Ican type comfortably. Generally, the faster I write, the better the results.
This won't work at all for some writers, who sweat it out line by line withconstant revision; and as a result, some of them think I don't care aboutquality.. I do—and I begin worrying seriously when my head can't keep ahead ofmy fingers. 

Anyhow, I reworked it and sent it back. This time Campbell simply suggestedthat maybe I should drop the idea, and that he could use a novelette forAstounding Science Fiction (as it was now called). 

"A Very Simple Man" is lost for all time, along with ten other storiesCampbell rejected. I kept the manuscripts for years, but they were all in abox that was supposed to be sent to me in New York when I moved from St. Louisin 1944. The box never arrived, so I can't include any of my unpublishedstories in this book. Frankly, I'm glad of that. With one exception, they wereall pretty bad, though I 

T 

might have been able to sell them during one of the boom periods. If I stillhad them, I suppose honesty would have compelled me to include them here—andthat would have been a bad thing for everyone except those who enjoy seriousstudy of every word a writer puts on paper. 

Anyhow, I turned to the novelette. I'd had one in mind—an old idea whichstarted off as an adventure story about a dog that brought a sailor bad luck.
Somehow, over several years of ripening, the dog had turned into a littlecreature from Venus, which brought very bad luck outside its native swamps,
but good luck there. I called it "The Luck of Ignatz" and it came to 12,700words. 

Campbell returned it to me, pointing out that I'd violated my own hypothesis.
I'd taken Ignatz back to the swamps and still plagued him with incredible badluck. He was right, of course. Every writer needs a good editor for just suchoccasions—and if he can find one, as I did, he's incredibly lucky. Istraightened that out and got my $127. It came at just the right time to save 


me from having to look for work, too. 

Then I went back to Unknown. This time I turned to Anderson's "Little Mermaid" 
for inspiration. She was a good kid, and the idea of her walking in agonyforever after had bothered me for years. I'd always wanted to rewrite thatending to a more logical one. Now I had a chance to. So I stood it on end,
took out the essential elements, and took a dryad as my heroine. In the end, Ithink she had to pay a more logical price for her love—and I like to think itwas a price she was willing to accept. It ran to 5,000 words under the titleof "Forsaking All Others." 

Campbell took it and sent me a check for $62.50. At the regular rate of onecent a word, that didn't work out. So I held the check and queried him. (MyGod, we were young and honest and na'ive once upon a time!) He told me that hewas now able to pay a bonus of a quarter cent a word on stories he reallyliked. So I went off to cash it in a mild aura of euphoria. 

But there was more to his letter. Included was another of his ideas, this timefor Unknown. Suppose, he suggested, that the elves weren't dead, but merelysleeping because they couldn't stand something in modern life. But one wakesup. Now the elves were tinkers, fixing copper pots and pans—of which there arefew today. Most things are of aluminum and stainless steel—and the old solderflue won't work on them! Poor little elf. What does he do? 

I added the idea that it was the fumes of coal and gasoline from 

factories and cars the elves couldn't stand. Then the one job he could findsoldering copper might be fixing car radiators—thereby adding to pollution.
(No, Virginia, pollution isn't a new thing to us who wrote science fictionback then!) I called it "The Coppersmith" and Campbell paid me $75 for 6,000words—another bonus. 

Unknown was obviously a promising market. I went out and bought myself a badlyneeded new suit and got back to work in a hurry for me—which meant a couple ofweeks or so. 

But this time I was trying something a little different. The other two storiesof fantasy which he had liked had been pretty sentimental. (Sam Moskowitzcalls all my early work sentimental; Campbell referred to it as mood writingonce or twice. I think Sam is right about much of my fantasy; but, aside froma little deliberate schmaltz at the end, most of my science fiction dependedmore on creating a mood than on outright sentimentality.) 

Now I wanted to do a story that I considered somewhat cynical. I knew smalltowns pretty well, and had lived in several. Generally, I like them. But someseem to develop a pattern that I dislike intensely, and this was a story inwhich I would extract all that was bad and forget the good. It wouldn't bea''del Rey" fantasy. (If two stories can be said to create a type!) So Ihunted around for a pen name and came up with the first of many I would use. Ilike something that looks a trifle unusual, so it can be remembered, and yetfalls trippingly off the tongue. Philip St. John seemed to meet thoserequirements, so I settled for that. The story went out and the check cameback—$70 for 5,600 words. The title was appropriately "Anything." 

3. Anything 
(by Philip St. John) 


Until Anything came to Carlsburg, I thought I knew the town like the back ofmy hand. A small-town paper is built on knowledge of the people it serves,
rather than news value, and I'd been editing the weekly Union Leader,
unofficially known as the Onion, for eight 

years. But the rumors I heard of the Man in Brown refused to fit into thepicture. 

In common with most small farming communities where the population is fallinginstead of rising, gossip was the leading rival of the newspaper; and inCarlsburg, it had been raised to a high art. From Aunt Mabel's dizzy spells toUncle Tod's rheumatism, everybody's business was common property, and astranger should have been dissected and analyzed within three days. 

The Man in Brown wasn't. There were rumors, of course, but they all boileddown to practically nothing. Apparently, he'd first been seen about a weekbefore, looking for work, and vouchsafing no information about himself. Forsome reason, nobody had thought to ask him who he was or where he came from—
which was the mystery of the affair. 

Jim Thompson dropped into the Union Leader's office one mom-ing, to talk aboutsome advertising and to relay his wife's orders. Jim was the owner of thelocal lumberyard and hardware store, and one of the best advertisers I had,
even if he did wear himself bald trying to save pennies. 

"Now, Luke," he told me, "it's up to you to find out about this here BrownMan, and Molly don't want any nonsense. That's what you're supposed to bedoing, running a newspaper like you are. Molly swears she'll drop her'scription and get the club to do the same, if you don't find out about him.
He's been in town over a week now, ain't he?" 

"Uh-huh." Molly ran the Carlsburg Culture Club, and I'd had trouble with herbefore. "I've been trying to get the facts, Jim, but the lack of informationis stupendous. Anyhow, I heard yesterday that your wife has already met thefellow, which is more than I've been able to do. What'd she say about him?" 

"He come to the door asking for work, seems like; said he didn't want no pay.
Now I ask you, don't that sound half-cracked?" Thompson reached over for mytobacco and filled his pipe, fishing around for a match until I handed himone. "Molly give him the mower and told him to cut the lawn, which he didright smart and proper. Seems like she no more'n stepped back inside when thejob was done. So she give him the bowl of bread and milk he wanted—that's allhe'd take— and away he went." 

It was the same story with minor variations that I'd heard all week; he wascontinually searching for odd jobs, and taking his pay in bread 

and milk, or a place to sleep for the night. "But didn't she ask him where hewas from and what he intended doing?" 

"That's the funny part of it all. You know how Molly is?" Jim grinned and Inodded. Even in Carlsburg, Molly's nose for scandal enjoyed a largereputation. "Somehow she never got around to asking him. They kinda talkedabout the weather and then begonias, but all the questions just slipped plumbout of Molly's mind. Matter of fact, she didn't even get his name." 


Thompson took out his fountain pen and turned to the bench where I kept theink, but stopped halfway. "Speak of the devil," he muttered, pointing acrossthe street. "Here he comes now, headed right this way. Now see what you canmake of him." 

The man crossing the street was ordinary enough in appearance, a little overaverage height, with a weathered brown hat and wrinkled brown suit hangingloosely on him. His very lack of distinction made description impossible,
except for the easy humor of the smile he was wearing. With a loose springystride, he came up the steps and leaned against the door facing me. 

"Good morning, gentlemen. You're Luke Short, the editor here, I believe?" Thevoice was soft and casual. "I'd like to run an advertisement in the paper ifyou'll let me pay in work. I haven't much use for money." 

"Know anything about typesetting?" I asked. My regular one-man staff had beensick, and I needed a man to replace him in the worst way. "If you do, I'll runyour item and pay regular wages." 

He sauntered in. "Anything. I'm sort of an all-around worker, from baby-
minding to house building. Only I don't work for money; just give me a placeto stay and a couple of meals a day, and we'll call it square. That's what Iwanted to say in the ad. You want the setting done now?" 

"This afternoon." I pulled out a galley proof and held it out as a* roughtest; most people, I've found, don't know six-point from great primer. "Whatsize type is this?" 

"Pica, or twelve-point on the caption; the rest's brevier, or eight-point,
upper and lower case. I told you I did anything—use a stick or linotype, run ajob press, make cuts, write copy—anything. What'll I do this morning andwhere'll I sleep?" 

Jim Thompson had finally succeeded in filling his pen and was sticking a fewblotters and envelopes in his pocket. He piped up. "You say you do buildingwork?" 

"Anything." The Man in Brown laid peculiar stress on the word whenever he usedit. 

"Well, I'm putting a new lumber shed up at the yard, and we're a miteshorthanded." The truth of that matter was that Jim had lost his workers 
because they asked more than he was willing to pay, and because his fat wifetried to run their private lives. "If you want work so bad, you can layasbestos shingles, whenever Luke don't want you. Sure you don't want money?
Okay, there's a cot in the back office where you can sleep. That okay?" 

"Perfectly. And you'll find me a rapid worker, I'm sure." 

They were almost out of range before I remembered enough to shout after him.
"Hey, you! What'll I call you?" 

He grinned back over his shoulder. "Anything," he answered, and it struck meas being appropriate, at that. 

I had to cover the Volunteer Fire Department's proposed drive for money thatnoon, and it wasn't until I neared my office that I remembered Anything. I 


also remembered that the old secondhand linotype was out of order as usual,
and needed a new cam installed before it could be used. Well, the paper hadgone to bed late often enough before, so there was no use worrying. 

Anything had his feet cocked up on the desk when I came in, and a pile ofgalley sheets lay beside him. "Setting's all done," he said. "Want me to makeit up while you finish that story you've been out on?" 

I looked at my watch and calculated the time needed to set the work I'd leftfor him. It didn't work out right, and a linotype refuses to be hurried, butthere was no disputing the galley sheets; the work was done. "What about thelinotype?" 

"Oh, I fixed that. Had a little trouble finding whether you had a new cam, butmy nose led me to it. By the way, your former helper called in to say thedoctor says no more work for him. I stuck a 'faithful service' notice in theeditorial column." 

"I suppose you finished laying Thompson's shingles this morning, in your sparetime?" 

The sarcasm didn't register. "I finished about eleven-thirty—he only had eightthousand to lay. I spent my spare time over at the garage helping Sam Whitetear out and overhaul a tractor engine. How about that makeup?" 

I gave up. "Okay, just as soon as I proofread these sheets." 

"No need. They're all perfect now. I found a few broken-face type when I ranoff the proofs, and fixed that up." There was no hint of 

boasting, and his voice was casual; but I'd punched ETAOIN SHRDLU myself, so Ihad no faith in perfect typesetting. I went over the proofs carefully—andthere were no errors! 

We put the paper to bed ahead of schedule for the first time in a year, and Itook Anything home with me to the bungalow I was renting on the edge of town.
For the benefit of subscribers, he'd written a quarter column on himself thatgave no information but would fool the readers into thinking they knew allabout him. Anything was a master of vague phrasing. 

"Look here, Anything," I opened up on him as he began cooking the supper, athis own insistence. "You might fool the others with that story you wrote, butjust what is the truth? All you said was that you'd come from somewhere, donesomething, were somebody, and meant to stay here as long as you felt like it." 

He grinned and began dishing out the meal. "At least it wasn't a lie, Luke.
You like catsup with your meat?" 

"I take meat straight. Better try some yourself." 

"Bread and milk's all that agrees with my stomach. Let's say I'm on a diet.
How long you been running the Onion?" 

"About eight years. Um, that's good!" Anything was more chef than cook, and Iappreciated a meal that wasn't thrown together. "I've been trying to get onthe regular papers in Chicago or Minneapolis, but there's not much hope. I'dhave to quit here and take pot-luck in the city; they don't think much of 


small-town editors." 

He finished his frugal meal and accepted a cigarette. "You're a pretty goodman, Luke; maybe some paper'll take you yet. In the meantime, you might doworse than the Onion. Thanks, I will take a piece of cheese, at that. Youknow, I think I'll like it here." 

"Expect to stay long?" 

"Maybe. It's sort of hard to say, the way things go. I had a pretty fair jobon a farm upstate, but the farmer was Scotch." 

I hoped for more information, but he gathered up the dishes and" carried themout to the sink in silence, refusing my help. "Thanks, but I can do themfaster alone. I suppose I can't blame people for suspecting me, at that.
Anyone who works for room and board nowadays is supposed to be crazy; but Ihappen to have a dislike for money. The Scotchman got the idea I was abrownie." 

The word should have meant something to me, but not very much. I was sure ithad something to do with superstition, though; something about little men whowent around doing things for people until somebody tried to pay them, or theywere driven away. 

"Sort of an elf?" I hazarded. 

"Sort of; you might call them Scotch elves. They tended cows or children,
cleaned up the house of a woman who was sick, and made themselves useful inany way they could, though hardly anyone ever saw them work. Mostly theyworked at nights, and all they wanted was a cranny in a barn where they couldsleep and a bowl of food left for them once or twice a day. If anyone tried toforce other payment on them, they had to leave." 

"That doesn't sound like the sort of person a farmer should object to." 

"Well, there's more to the superstition than that. It seems that they could doill as well as good. Make the milk turn sour, cause a cow to go dry, and thelike. Anytime they were displeased, it was bad business. Sometimes the peoplegot together and drove them away, and that was always the wrong thing to do.
So when I come around dressed in brown and working for their wages, a fewpeople get worried." 

I could see where he'd worry some people, but more from curiosity than fear.
"But the brownies, if I remember right, were supposed to be short littlefellows. And I never read about their smoking or doing work in the newspaperline." 

"Oh, I'm not suggesting I am one." He grinned with a hint of puckishamusement. "That sort of superstition has pretty well died out, anyway, andsensible people—like us—know there couldn't be such things. Still, if therewere, I imagine they'd be modernized by now. They'd have to be more humanlooking to mix with men, and they'd have to adapt themselves to city life,
perhaps. Of course, some of the old rules might still apply." 

I wondered whether he was telling me all that in the hope of discouragingfurther questions, or whether he had some other purpose in mind. But that washis business. "Maybe they would change, if there were such things," I agreed. 


"How about staying here tonight? That cot of Thompson's won't be overlycomfortable." 

"It'll be all right. Anyhow, Thompson's putting me to work making generalrepairs tomorrow morning, so I'll be up early. See you in the afternoon,
Luke." 

As he disappeared toward the yard, I had a crazy idea that he'd do more thansleep during the night. Maybe it was what he'd been saying that caused it. 

Jim Thompson came in the next morning with a. smile that was so genuine it hadto mean money for him. "That Anything's what 

I call a worker," he greeted me. "Does more work than any six men I ever had,
and I don't have to stand watch over him, neither. Just goes off by himselfand first thing I know, he's back asking for more." 

"He's the best helper I ever had," I agreed. "How'd your wife like the articleI ran on him in this week's paper?" 

"Oh, fine, fine. 'Bout time you got it out, too. She says it's just what shewanted to know." 

I'd had other compliments on the item, too. Anything had succeeded beautifullyin telling everybody what they wanted to know without actually telling athing; but I didn't explain that to Jim. 

He drew some wrinkled sheets out of his pocket, covered with what he calledwriting, and I knew there was more advertising to be had from him. "Got alittle job for you, Luke. Want you to run some handbills for me, like it sayshere." 

"Which is-" 

"When you ever gonna learn to read?" He snorted at that for the hundredthtime. "Okay, just say I'm willing to contract for repairs around town to costonly the price of the lumber and hardware. I'll furnish the labor free forthis week to anyone wanting work of that kind done. Town sorta needs a lot ofrepairs, I guess, and it's a good thing for 'em." 

When Jim offered free labor, it meant it was free—especially to Jim. "You'llget your value out of your cot out of Anything, won't you?" I asked. 

I had to admit that Anything was a good worker. When I'd opened the officethat morning, I'd found an envelope inside the door with half a dozen newsitems in it; as I'd guessed, Anything hadn't wasted the night. "Sam White'sfiguring on cutting in on it, too. He called up this morning wanting Anythingto help with a couple of cars when we're not using him." 

"Sam's a chiseler, always has been." He rounded up a scratch pad and eraserand pocketed them. "You make him fork over for Any* thing's board, or you'llbe a fool. By the way, you hear about Olsen's sick horse?" 

"No. The vet finally succeeded in curing it?" 

"Vet didn't have a thing to do with it, though he claims he done it all. Olsenwoke up this morning and there the horse was, raring to go." Thompson filled 


his pipe and picked up a couple of red pencils. "You get the handbills outright away, Luke. I'm expecting to sell a smart bit of lumber this week." 

Jim sold more than a smart bit. By the time the week was almost 

up, there wasn't a house in town that didn't have some of Anything's work init, and several houses were practically made over. Where he found time for thework was a mystery that puzzled everyone except Thompson. 

Anything worked when people were away from home, and there were rumors that hehad a staff of assistants, but no one ever saw them. Molly Thompson hadstarted that idea and the rumor that Anything was a millionaire come to townto rebuild it secretly; somebody else added that he was planning on opening afactory there, which explained his interest in Carlsburg. There were otheicontradictory rumors, too, but that was the normal course of events in thetown. 

All I knew was that Anything could do more newspaper work in part of an"
afternoon than any other man could turn out in a week, and better work, atthat. If he stayed in town long enough, paid subscriptions should be doubledat the end of the year. Sam White felt the same about his garage business. 

And then the Carlsburg Culture Club held its monthly meeting, and the rumorsthat had been drifting around were focused in one small group. As aclearinghouse for scandal, the Culture Club acted with an efficiency thatapproached absolute. But since it was purely for women, I had to wait for theresults of the meeting until the sound and fury were over and Molly Thompsonbrought in the minutes for publication. 

She usually came in about nine in the morning, but this time she was late. Itwas nearly ten when Anything opened the door and walked in, and I was stillwaiting. 

"Good morning, Luke," he said. "Is that bed over at your place still open tome?" 

I nodded. "Sure is, Anything. What's the matter with the cot and why aren'tyou working for Jim this morning?" 

"Carlsburg Culture Club," he answered. But his grin was a little sour, and hesat back in the chair without offering to do anything around the place.
"Molly'11 be calling you up in a couple of minutes, I guess, and you'll hearall the dirt then. Got a cigarette, Luke?" 

When Anything asked for something, it was news good for two-inch type, purpleink and all. I handed him the cigarette and reached over to the phone that wasbeginning to ring. "Carlsburg Union Leader; editor speaking." 

Molly's shrill voice tapped in over the wire, syllables spilling all 

over each other. "Don't you 'editor' me, Luke Short; I know your voice. Youwant them minutes, or don't you?" 

"Of course I do, Mrs. Thompson. People always want to know what happened atthe Culture Club." Personally, I doubted whether ten people, club membersexcepted, cared enough to know they were printed; I'd always begrudged the inkthat put them on paper. 


"You ain't fooling me with that soft soap. But you do want our 'scriptions,
don't you? There's over forty of us, and we can make a lot of other peoplestop 'scribing, too. You want our 'scriptions?" 

The line was old; I usually heard it six times a year, and in eight years, thewords hadn't changed. "Now, Mrs. Thompson, you know I want your subscriptions.
What can I do for you this time?" 

"Humph! Well, you better want 'em." She stopped for a dramatic pause and drewin her breath for a properly impressive explosion. "Then you get rid of thatAnything, Luke Short! You hear me, you get him outta there today. You 'n' thathusband of mine, mixing up with him like you had a bargain, just 'cause you'retoo stingy to hire honest workers. I'll tell you, I put a bug in Jim's ear,
and he won't try that again. And that Anything—a-telling me he was amillionaire trying to build up the town! Humph!" 

I tried to calm her down and be patient. "Now, Mrs. Thomspon, I'm sure you'llremember he never said that. I knew, of course, that several rumors were goingaround, but I can assure you he was responsible for none of them." 

"Like fun he wasn't. Every member of the club had a different story, and everyone of them heard it personal from him. They told me so themselves. Wasn't notwo alike!" Which was undoubtedly true; rumors in Carlsburg always were heard"personal" from the person concerned, according to reports. "And look what hedone!" 

Anything had come over and had his ear within a few inches of the receiver—asnear as his eardrums could stand. He was grinning. Molly Thompson went on witha truly religious zeal. . 

"Going around doing all that work. It don't fool me. He had a purpose, and yoube sure it wasn't for nobody's good. Besides, look at Olsen's horse. AndTurner's boy that got bit by a hyderphoby dog and never even felt it. And lookat them gardens where nobody ever finds any weeds or quack grass anymore.
Fanny Forbes saw him working in her garden one night. He's up to everythingfunny that's going on in this town, doing free work just to fool you men intothinking he's your friend. It's a good thing us women keep our eyes open, oryou'd all wake up with your throats cut some morning." 

I remember another stranger who'd come to town before and shut himself up in ahouse, hardly coming out. The Culture Club had decided he was a famousswindler and tried to instigate tar-and-feather proceedings. They almostsucceeded, too, when it was learned he was a writer trying to fulfill acontract for a book. Everything that was mysterious was evil to the club. 

But I still tried to keep the peace. "I can't see any wrong in what has beendone. He merely told us he could do anything, and kept his word. Surely that'snothing against the man." 

"Anything! I'd like to see a person who could do anything at all. If Icouldn't name a hundred things nobody could do, I'd eat my shoes. And himsaying he could do anything!" 

"So far, he's done what he claimed, Mrs. Thompson, and I'm not firing him forthat." 


She choked on it, and then snickered in greasy nastiness. "I'll just show youwhether he can do anything. If he'll do just what I want him to, you keep himand I'll not say another word. If he don't, you fire him. That a bet?" 

Anything nodded, but I didn't like the sound of it. "Lord knows what she's gotin mind," I warned him. He nodded again, emphatically, and there was littlehumor in the smile. 

"It's a bet. You tell him what you want," I answered, handing Anything thephone. 

She must have lowered her voice, because I couldn't hear what she said next.
But Anything's smile grew sharp and pointed, and there was something on hisface I'd never seen before, and didn't want to see again. His usual soft voicewas low and crisp as he finally spoke into the instrument. 

"As you wish, Mrs. Thompson. It's already done." 

There was a sudden shriek over the phone, and he put the receiver back on itshook. "Come on, Luke," he said. "I'm afraid I got you into trouble that time,
and I'm sorry about it. Let's go home and see what happens." 

Well, the paper was all made up, ready to be turned out the next day, andthere wasn't much left to do. During the week I'd learned to respectAnything's judgment, and I had a hunch that this was one of the times tofollow his advice. In five minutes, the shop was closed, the curtains down,
and we were heading back to my bungalow. 

"You won't believe it, Luke, so don't ask questions" was all he would tell me.
"She asked something she thought impossible, and 

I did it. Matter of fact, you ought to kick me out and not be seen with meagain." 

That shriek over the telephone had suggested the same; but, hell, I liked thefellow. "I'll stick," I told him. "And when you get ready to talk, I'lllisten. How about a little work in the garden this afternoon?" 

We didn't do much work, and at Anything's suggestion, we made an early supperof it, leaving the dishes unwashed and sitting around smoking. He seemed to bewaiting for something, or listening to something. 

"You got any good friends in town, Luke?" he asked finally. "I mean, somebodyyou can really depend on in a pinch?" 

"There's Sam White. He'd lend me his last clean shirt. And he's a pretty goodfriend of yours, if I'm not mistaken." 

"He seemed pretty square. You and he were the only ones who treated me like awhite man." Anything stood up and began pacing around uneasily, going out tothe door and back. "Why doesn't that messenger come?" 

"What messenger?" 

"Special delivery letter for you. Don't ask me how I know, either." He wasstanding on the porch, staring down the street. "Ah, there he is now. Go outand sign for it, Luke." 


"Special delivery for Lucian Short," the man said. He avoided my eyes, thoughI'd known him for years, seized the signed book, and scurried back to the car.
I grunted and went back inside. 

The letter was short: 

Your letter requesting a chance to work with us has come to my attention. Atpresent, we are looking for a man to fill the position of City Editor, soon tobe vacated. We have checked your references and examined your previous work,
and believe you are particularly qualified for this position. Please report atonce. * 

It was signed by the managing editor of the Chicago Daily Blade, a paper I'dbeen trying to get on for years; but I hadn't tried for the City Desk. 

I grunted, holding it out for Anything's inspection. "Dammit, they don't hiremen that way—not for jobs like that on a Chicago paper." 

He chuckled. "It seems they did. Maybe that will solve the problem. You'll beleaving on the seven-ten bus, I reckon. Better answer 

the phone, Luke, while I pack up your things. It's been ringing a couple ofminutes now." 

With clumsy hands, I stuffed the envelope into my pocket and made a dash forthe phone, buzzing its head off. Sam White's voice answered. 

"Luke, for the love of Pete, is Anything there?" 

"He is." 

"Well, get him out of town! Get out of town yourself until this blows over.
You're mixed up with him, and they're crazy enough to do any fool thing." 

"What's up?" I'd expected something, and the expectation had been growing allafternoon, but nothing that justified the frantic urge in Sam's voice. 

"The town's gone gaga, Luke! Absolutely nuts! Molly Thompson, the two Elkridgesisters, the whole damned Culture Club and some besides, have been stirring uppeople since before noon. Nobody's in his right mind. They're talking about alynching party!" 

That was strong. "Lynching party? You're drunk, Sam. We haven't killedanybody." 

"Worse than that. They've gone back to the Middle Ages, I'll swear they have.
I don't know nor care how he did it, but Anything's gone too far for them.
They're talking about witchcraft and his either being Satan or a substitutefor him. I thought this was a civilized town, but it's not. They're all drunkon superstition and fear." 

"Sam, in heaven's name, slow down and make sense!" His words were jumbledtogether until I could hardly understand him. "What happened?" 

Sam caught his breath and slowed down a little. "Seems Anything hexed Mollyand the Elkridges. You know how fat they were? Well, they're the thinnest, 


scrawniest women in town now. Molly doesn't weigh over eighty pounds! You'vegot to leave town before they really get stirred up. You can still make it,
but give them another hour, and hell's gonna pop! Get out, Luke!" 

So that was what the screech over the phone had meant. At heart, I knew,
people hadn't changed much in the last thousand years, and I could imaginewhat was going on. "Okay, Sam, and thanks," I said cutting off hisexpostulations. "I just got a job in Chicago, and I'm going there. DailyBlade." 

Relief was heavy in his voice. "That's fine, Luke. I'll see you in Chicago. Mybrother has a garage there, and he wants me to join him. Just got a specialdelivery from him. After tonight, I don't want 

another thing to do with this crazy bunch. Make it as quick as you can." 

"I'm leaving now." Anything had just come down with the bags. The furniturewas furnished with the house, and I hadn't acquired much except a few books.
"See you in Chicago." 

The line went dead, and I grabbed for a bag. "We're leaving, Anything. Samsays the town's out for blood." 

He nodded and shouldered the two heaviest bags. "I kind of thought that mighthappen. But when she asked me to make her thin, I couldn't resist theopportunity. Hope you're not mad?" 

I wasn't. The whole thing struck me as funny—if we got out all right. The busstation, really only a covered platform, was on the other side of town, andI'd have to catch it to Winona and transfer to a Chicago train there. No trainwould pass through Carlsburg before ten o'clock. But the whole main street laybetween my house and the bus stop. 

We walked along in silence. There were people ahead, crowded into littlegroups, talking in low voices with excited gestures. As they saw us coming,
they drew back and dispersed quickly. For a half block on each side of us, thestreet was deserted, but they re-formed their groups after we had passed.
Watching them do that, I quickened my steps, but Anything pulled me back. 

"Take it easy," he urged. "They haven't reached the boiling point, but they'repretty close to it. If we take our time, we'll make it, but let them thinkwe're running from them, or afraid of them, and they'll be on us in a jiffy." 

It made sense, and I calmed down, but cold shocks kept running up and down mybackbone. Even the dogs around us seemed to slink with their tails betweentheir legs. When a whole town turns on a man in one day, it isn't thepleasantest thing in the world. 

Anything grinned easily, and his voice was mocking. "Somehow, Luke, I don'tthink people will like living here much anymore. The town seems sort of dingyand dinky, doesn't it?" 

I hadn't noticed, but now I did. Up ahead, things were still lookingreasonably well kept and attractive, but as we drew nearer, I noticed that thepaint seemed dirty and about to scale off, the buildings seemed about tocrumble in, and there was an air of gloom and sickness about the town. Behindus it was worse. There was no real difference that I could see, but the change 


was there. No, people weren't going to enjoy living in Carlsburg. 

We came up to Sam White's garage, now closed for the night, but 

there seemed to be nothing wrong with the place. Anything nodded. "Cheerfulhere, isn't it? Well, each town has its own bright spots. And there's youroffice. Own any of the paper, Luke?" 

I shook my head and noticed the same desolation fall on the Union Leaderoffice. Even the people on the street behind seemed different. Before, theyhad been ordinary people, but now they looked older, more frustrated, likeghosts come back to haunt a place after its use was done. The dogs werehowling dismally, and I could see none on the street now. 

It was a relief to see the bus stop come into view and then feel its platformunder my feet. It lacked two munutes of being time for the bus, but topping ahill in the distance, I could make out the amber glow of its lights in thegrowing dusk. 

I turned to Anything. "Where are you going now?" 

"Think I'll take that side road there and head west this time." It might havebeen a weekend trip for all the emotion he showed. 

"Better come with me; maybe we can get you a job on the Blade. You're too gooda printer and newspaperman for small towns." 

He grinned. "I'll be all right, Luke, but thanks for all you've done. Someday,
maybe, I'll look you up in Chicago." 

I nodded and glanced off toward the approaching bus. "So long, Anything, andgood luck." Then the question that had been bothering me for a week finallycame to my lips. "Just what kind of a man are you, anyway?" 

But as I turned back, there was no need of an answer. Where he had been, alittle brown man, stocky and with a large head, was walking down the road. Hisclothes were fashioned like something out of a child's storybook, and hecarried a little bag on a pole over his shoulder. As I looked, he turned hishead back, and there was a purring chuckle in his answer. 

"A brownie. So long, Luke." 

Then the bus pulled up and cut off my view of the best newspaperman that everhexed a town. 

In those days, the magazine had a large section at the back devoted to theletters from the readers. This section was probably the first read by anywriter, as well as by most fans. A good many of the comments were quite goodcriticism, and sometimes a writer could leam quite a bit from reading them; Iknow they offered me a chance to learn more about myself. 

But there were moments when the letters were amusing for their lack ofjudgment, or for their rather extreme self-assurance. In the case of"Anything" I was agreeably surprised to find that a reader who had objectedstrongly to my stories in both Unknown and Astounding was now wild withenthusiasm. "I didn't know who Philip St. John was," he wrote, "but now that Iknow, I must say he's my favorite author." I have no idea whose identity he 


knew lay behind the masquerade—probably L. Sprague de Camp—but I had a hardtime resisting the urge to write him a note, thanking him, and admitting mytrue identity. 

Well, as a writer I was now seemingly in the groove. But one should neverquestion the ability of a writer to get out of the groove as soon as he findsit. My next try had to be something of a fable, of course. Now, nobody waspublishing fables, but I had to do this one. And strangely, I still believe Ihad to do it; it was one of those things that were really done for myself, andI don't resent the time I spent on it. 

It was a story called "Hands of the Gods," laid supposedly in the far future,
when a man has gone off and left his few animals behind. They can talk, andthey have breeding vats, but they have to find their own future. And step bystep we see most of them sink back to savage wildness, while the ape beginsevolving. There were five episodes, each with the elephant somehow helping theman-ape. Finally, questioned by the lion, the elephant says it is because manmust be replaced, and the ape alone has the all-important hands of the gods.
And in the end, there's a section laid in what might be any zoo where a childis asking his father why men are really so much superior to animals. Theelephant there is listening, and his little eyes twinkle as they move on. 

It doesn't sound like much, but I probably wrote that better than anythingelse I've ever done, and the parts fitted together very well. I thought itmight go, since it was only 5,000 words long. * 

Campbell returned it with a long letter in which he said he was reallygrateful to me for letting him see it, and that he'd enjoyed it more thananything for a long time. But he couldn't use it. It was a "Just-So" story (hewas right about that) and very few grown-ups were mature enough to read suchstories. 

He must have liked it, since he mentioned it several times over a period ofyears. And the few people who read it told me it was the best thing I'd everdone. But it went into the box with the other rejects and was lost. I'm sorryabout that one, since I could have found 

a market for it much later. I've sometimes thought of rewriting it. But commonsense prevails. Somehow back then I did it just right; and while I might bemore skillful in some ways now, the original enthusiasm behind it would bestale. I'm still glad I wrote it. 

After that, I went back to more routine flights of fancy and spent 4,800 wordson a bit of space wrangling. The story was called "Habit" and won me another$60. 

4. Habit 
(by Lester del Rey) 

Habit is a wonderful thing. Back in the days of apelike men, one of theminvented a piece of flint that made life a little easier; then another foundsomething else. Labor-saving ideas were nice, and it got to be a habit,
figuring them out, until the result was what we call civilization, asexemplified by rocket racing. 

Only, sometimes, habits backfire in the darnedest way. Look at what happened 


to the eight-day rocket race out of Kor on Mars. 

I was down there, entered in the open-class main event, with a little five-tonsoup can of rare vintage, equipped with quartz tube linings and an inch ofrust all over. How I'd ever sneaked it past the examiners was a miracle infour dimensions, to begin with. 

Anyway, I was down in the engine well, welding a new brace between the rocketstanchion and the main thrust girder when I heard steps on the tilly ladderoutside. I tumbled out of the dog port to find a little, shriveled fellow withstreaked hair and sharp gray eyes giving the Umatila the once-over. 

"Hi, Len," he said casually, around his cigarette. "Been making repairs, eh?
Well, not meaning any offense, son, she looks to me like she needs it. Darnedif I'd risk my neck in her, not in the opens. Kind of a habit with me, beingfond of my neck." 

I mopped the sweat and grease off the available parts of my anatomy. "Would ifyou had to. Since you seem to know me, how about furnishing your handle?" 

"Sure. Name's Jimmy Shark—used to be thick as thieves with your father, BradMasters. I saw by the bulletin you'd sneaked in just before they closed theentries, so I came down to look you over." 

Dad had told me plenty about Jimmy Shark. As a matter of fact, my father hadbeen staked to the Umatila by this man, when racing was still new. "Glad tomeet you." I stuck out my hand and dug up my best grin. 

"Call me Jimmy when you get around to it—it's a habit." His smile was as easyand casual as an old acquaintance. "I'da known you anywhere; look just likeyour father. Never thought I'd see you in this game, though. Brad told me hewas fixing you up in style." 

"He was, only—" I shrugged. "Well, he figured one more race would sweeten thepot, so he blew the bankroll on himself in the Runabout. You heard whathappened." 

"Um-hm. Blew up rounding Ceres. I was sorry to hear it. Didn't leave youanything but the old Umatila, eh?" 

"Engineering ticket that won't draw a job, and some debts. Since I couldn'tget scrap-iron prices for the old soup can, I made a dicker for the soup oncredit. Back at the beginning, starting all over—and going to win this race." 

Jimmy nodded. "Um-hm. Racing kind of gets to be a habit. Still quartz tubes onher, eh? Well, they're faster, when they hold up. Since you aren't usingduratherm, I suppose your soup is straight Dynatomic IV?" 

I had to admit he knew his tubes and fuels. They haven't used quartz tubelinings for ten years, so only a few people know that Dynatomic can be used inthem straight to give a 40 percent efficient drive, if the refractory holdsup. In the new models, duratherm lining is used, and the danger of blowing atube is nil. But the metal in duratherm acts as an anticatalyst on the soupand cuts the power way down. To get around that, they add a little powderedplatinum and acid, which brings the efficiency up to about 35 percent, butstill isn't the perfect fuel it should be. 


Jimmy ran his hand up a tube, tapped it, and listened to the coyote howl itgave off. "A nice job, son. You put that lining in yourself, I take it. Well,
Brad won a lot of races in the old shell using home-lined quartz tubes. Musthave learned the technique from him." 

"I did," I agreed, "with a couple of little tricks of my own thrown in forgood measure." 

"How about looking at the cockpit, Len?" 

I hoisted him and helped him through the port. There wasn't room 

for two in there, so I stood on the tilly ladder while he looked her over. 

"Urn-hm. Nice and cozy, some ways. Still using Brad's old baby autopilot, Isee, and the old calculator. Only that brace there—it's too low. The springson your shock hammock might give enough to throw you against it when youreverse, and you'd be minus backbone. By the way, you can't win races bysleeping ahead of time in your shock hammock—you ought to know that." He heldup my duffel and half a can of beans. "And that isn't grub for preparing ameteor dodger, either." 

"Heck, Jimmy, I'm tough." I knew he was right, of course, but I also knew howfar a ten-spot went on Mars. 

"Um-hm. Be like old times with a Masters in the running. Got to be a habit,
seeing that name on the list." He crawled out of the port and succeeded inlighting a cigarette that stung acridly in the dry air. "You know, Len, I justhappened to think; I was supposed to have a partner this trip, but he backeddown. There's room and board paid for two over at Mom Doughan's place, andonly me to use it. We'd better go over there before her other boarders cleanthe table and leave us without supper. Eating's sort of a habit with me." 

He had me by the arm and was dragging me across the rocket pit before I couldopen my mouth. "Now, Jimmy, I'm used—" 

"Shut up. You're used to decent living, same as anyone else, so you might aswell take it and like it. I told you I'd paid for them already, didn't I? Allright. Anyhow, I'm not used to staying alone; sort of a habit, having somebodyto talk to." 

I was beginning to gather that he had a few habits scattered around at oddplaces. 

Jimmy was right; shock cushions and beans don't make winners. With a decentmeal inside me, and an air-conditioned room around me, my chances looked a lotrosier. Some of the old cocksureness came back. 

"Jimmy," I said, lying back and letting the bed ease my back lazily, "I'mgoing to win that race. That hundred-thousand first looks mighty good." 

"Um-hm." Jimmy was opening a can of cigarettes and he finished beforeanswering. "Better stick to the second, kid. This race is fixed." 

"I'll change that, then. Who told you it was fixed?" 

He grinned sourly. "Nobody. I fixed it myself." He watched my mouth run around 


and end up in an open circle. "Maybe Brad forgot to tell you, and it's notcommon news, but I'm a professional bettor." 

It was news to me. "But I thought Dad—did he know?" 

"Sure, he knew. Oh, he wasn't connected with it, if that's what you'rewondering. When he switched from jockeying to dodging, I left the ponies tohandicap the soup cans. Learned the gambling end from my father, the besthandicapper in the business. It's a habit in the family." 

There was pride in his voice. Maybe I was screwy; after all, some people havea pretty low opinion of rocket dodgers. I decided to let Jimmy spill his sidewithout foolish questions. 

"Um-hm. Natural-bom handicapper, I am. I won twice every time I lost. Nevercheated a man, welshed on a bet, or bribed a dodger to throw a race. Anythingwrong with that?" 

I had to admit there wasn't. After all, Dad used to do some betting himself,
as I should know. "How about the race being crooked?" 

Jimmy snorted. "Not crooked—fixed. Don't go twisting my words, Len." Hestretched out on the bed and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "Alwayswanted to be famous, son. You know, big philanthropist, endow libraries andschools. Got to be a habit, planning on that; and you can't make that kind ofmoney just handicapping. Your dad ever tell you about that fuel he was workingon?" 

I began to see light. "We knew he'd been doing something of that sort, thoughthe formula couldn't be found. Matter of fact, he was using it in the Runaboutwhen it went out." 

"That's it." Jimmy nodded. "A little bit of the compound in the fuel booststhe speed way up. There was a couple of kinks in the original formula, but Igot them straightened out. I pick the winner—the fellow who needs to win most,
if that's any comfort to you—and sell him on the new fuel. Only the thingwon't work in quartz tubes— burns 'em out." 

"I won't need it. I'll win this race fair and square." All the same, that didmess things up; I knew Dad had thought a lot of that fuel. 

"No rules against better fuels. A man can pick the fuel he wants, the same ashe can travel any course he wants to, no matter how long, if he goes past themarkers." He grunted. "Brad didn't want you racing, so he sent me the formula.
Had a hunch about going out, I guess; dodgers get a habit of hunches." 

"And we Masterses have a habit of winning. Better change your bets, Jimmy." 

"It's all fixed, too late to change, and the odds are long. After this race,
I'm going back and get the habit of being a big philanthropist. Look, kid,
you're not sore about my using Brad's formula?" 

"If he gave it to you, that was his business." I pulled the sheet up andreached for the light switch. "Only don't blame me when you lose your bets." 

But the morning of the start, I had to confess I wasn't feeling so cocky, inspite of living high on Jimmy for a week. I'd seen the favorite —Bouncing 


Betty—and Jimmy's fix, the Tar Baby, and both looked mighty good to me. 

"What's the Tar Baby pulling?" I asked Jimmy. "Or do you know?" 

"Olsen says he's driving her at better than two G's all the way. The BouncingBetty's pulling straight two, which is tough enough, but Olsen thinks he canstand the strain at two and a quarter." 

I looked them over again. An extra quarter gravity of acceleration, even if itis^only an extra eight feet per second, uses a lot of additional fuel, evenfor a sixteen-ton soup can. "How about that mixture, Jimmy? Does it pep up theefficiency, or just the speed—combustion rate and exhaust velocity?" 

"She'll throw out a fifty percent, mixture I gave Olsen; optimum is good foreighty." Something began to click in my head then, but his next wordssidetracked it. "You'd better draw out, kid. An eight-day race is bad, even ifyou can hold two G's. How's your supplies?" 

I was worried a little myself, but I wouldn't admit it. "They'll last. I'vestocked enough soup to carry me to Jupiter and back at two G's, if I had to,
and the marker station is forty million miles this side of the big fellow, ona direct line from here. I've got plenty of oxygen, water, and concentrates." 

They'd given out the course that morning. We were to head out from Kor, pointstraight at Jupiter with a climb out of the plane of the ecliptic, drive downand hit a beacon rocket they were holding on a direct line with the bigplanet, forty million miles this side of him; that made about an even three-
hundred-million-mile course from Mars, out and back, figured for eight days ata constant acceleration and deceleration of two gravities. It had beenadvertised as the longest and toughest race in rocket history, and they werecertainly living up to the publicity. 

"That's a tough haul on a youngster, Len," Jimmy grumbled. "And with quartzlining, it's worse." 

"I've had plenty of practice at high acceleration, and the tubes arepractically safe for six days' firing. I think they'll last the other two." 

"Then you're matching the Bouncing Betty's speed?" 

I nodded grimly. "I'll have to. The Tar Baby'11 probably run into 

trouble at the speed she's meaning to make, but the Betty's built to standtwo." 

The starter was singing out his orders, and the field was being cleared. Jimmygrabbed my hand. "Good luck, Len. Don't ride her harder'n she'll carry. YouMasterses make too much of a habit of being crazy." 

Then they forced him off the field and I was climbing into the cockpit,
tightening the anchor straps of the shock hammock about the straitjacket Iwore. 

And I expected to need them. Two gravities mean double weight, during eightdays, fighting your lungs and heart. If you take it lengthwise, it can't bedone, but by lying stretched out on the hammock at right angles to the flightline, it's just possible. 


The Betty roared up first, foaming out without a falter. Olsen took the TarBaby up a little uncertainly, but straightened sharply and headed up. Finally,
I got the signal and gave her the gun, leaving Mars dangling in space while Itried to keep my stomach off my backbone. The first ten minutes are always thetoughest. 

When that passed, I began feeding the tape into the baby autopilot that wouldtake over when I had to sleep, which was about three quarters of the time,
under the gravity drag. There wasn't anything exciting to the takeoff, and Iwas out in space before I knew it, with the automatic guiding her. I mighthave to make a correction or two, but she'd hold at the two-G mark on coursefor days at a stretch. 

I'd been fool enough to dream about excitement, but I knew already I wasn'tgoing to get it. By the time I was half an hour out, I was bored stiff, orfelt that way. The automat ran the ship, space looked all alike, and the onlysensation was weight pressing against me. I looked around for the Betty, andspotted her blast some fifty miles away, holding evenly abreast of me. Theothers were strung out behind in little clusters, except for Olsen. His blastwas way up ahead, forging along at a good quarter gravity more than I coulduse. At the end of an hour, he was a full ten thousand miles away from me;
there was no mistaking the harsh white glare of his jets. Olsen had decided toduck over the ecliptic, as I was doing, but the Bouncing Betty had headedbelow it, so it was drawing out of sight. That left me out of touch with whatI hoped was my leading competitor. 

Of course, the radio signals came through on the ultrawave every so often, butthe pep-talk description of the thrilling contest for endurance racing didn'tmean much when I put it up against the facts. 

A racing ship in space on a long haul is the loneliest, most Godforsaken spotunder the stars. For excitement, I'll take marbles. 

Having nothing better to do, I turned over and went to sleep on my stomach.
You can kill a lot of time sleeping, and I meant to do it. 

The howler was banging in my ear when I woke up. I reached over and cut on,
noting that the chronometer said sixteen hours out of Kor. 

"Special bulletin to all pilots," said the ultrawave set. "The Bouncing Betty,
piloted by James Maclntyre, is now out of the race. Mac-Intyre reports that,
in cutting too close to the ecliptic, he was struck by a small meteoroid, andhas suffered the loss of three main tubes. While out of the running, he feelsconfident of reaching Kor safely on his own power. 

"This leaves Olsen of the Tar Baby and Masters of the Umatila in the lead by along margin. Come in, Olsen." 

Olsen's voice held a note of unholy glee that the obvious fatigue he wasfeeling couldn't hide. "Still holding two and a quarter, heart good, breathingonly slightly labored; no head pains. Position at approximately twenty-two anda half million miles from Kor; speed, two million eight hundred thousand perhour. Confident of winning." 

"Report acknowledged, Olsen. Come in, Masters." 


I tried to sound carefree, but I guess I failed. "Acceleration at two, holdingcourse beautifully on autopilot, rising over ecliptic. Body and ship standingup okay. Pyrometer indication of tube lining very satisfactory. Position,
twenty million miles out, speed, two and a half million. No signs ofmeteoroids up here. Can you give next highest acceleration below me?" 

Already it took time for the messages to reach Kor and return, and I tried tolocate Olsen with his two-and-a-half-million-mile lead. Even if he cut down to 
two now, the race seemed a certainty for him— unless something happened.
Finally the report came back. 

"Burkes, on the Salvador, reports one and three quarters, refuses to tryhigher. No others above that except yourself and Olsen. Are you going to matchthe Tar Baby?" 

Match the Tar Baby, indeed, and run short of fuel or blow up! "No chance.
Still expect to win, though." 

Well, at least it would sound nice back home, and it might worry Olsen alittle. He was too conceited about his speed. But I couldn't see myself makinggood. Even if I cut closer to the ecliptic, it wouldn't save enough time tocount, and the risk wasn't worthwhile. I dug into my store of concentrates andsatisfied a raving hunger-

double weight takes double energy, just as it does sleep. The only thing Icould think of was to wish I could maintain acceleration all the way, insteadof just half. 

That's the trouble with racing. You accelerate with all you've got half theway, then turn around and decelerate just as hard until you reach your goal;
then you repeat the whole thing in getting back. The result is that as soon asyou reach top speed, you have to check it, and you average only a part of whatyou can do. If there were just something a man could get a grip on in space toslew around, instead of stopping dead, every record made would go to piecesthe next day. 

I checked over the automat, found it ticking cheerfully, and fiddled aroundwith the calculator. But the results were the same as they'd been back in Kor.
It still said I'd have to decelerate after about forty-four hours. Then Imessed around with imaginary courses to kill time, listened to the thrillingreports of the race—it must have been nice to listen to—and gave up. Settingthe alarm, I went back to sleep with the announcer's voice concluding somelaudatory remarks about the "fearless young man out there giving his shipeverything he's got in a frantic effort to win." 

But I was awake when the next bulletin came in from Kor at the end of the 
forty-hour mark. "Special bulletin! We've just received word from Dynatomicfuels that there's a prize of fifty thousand additional to any and every manwho makes the course in less than eight full days! Olsen and Masters are nowway ahead in the field, and about to do their reversing. Come on, Masters,
we're pulling for you; make it a close race! All right, Olsen, come in." 

"Tell Dynatomic the prize is due me already, and give 'em my thanks. Holdingup fine here, fuel running better than I expected. Hundred and forty millionout; speed, seven million. Reversing in two hours." 

By a tight margin, I might make it, since it applied to as many aj came in 


within the time period. "I'll be in the special field, Kor. Everything likeclockwork here, standing it fine. Pyrometer still says tubes okay. Position,
one-twenty-five millions; speed, six and a quarter. Reversing in four hours." 

"Okay, Masters; hope you make it. Watch out for Jupiter, both of you. Even atforty million miles, he'll play tricks with your steering when you hit thebeacon. Signing off at Kor." 

Jupiter! Right then a thought I'd been trying to nurse into consciousness cameup and knocked on my dome. I dug my fingers into the calculator; the more thetape said, the better things looked. 

Finally I hit the halfway. Olsen had reversed a couple of hours before with nobad effects from the change. But I was busy dialing Mars. They came in, aftera good long wait. "Acknowledging Masters. Trouble?" 

"Clear sailing, here and ahead, Kor." It's nice to feel confident afterstaring second prize in the face all the trip. "Is there any rule about thecourse, provided a man passes the beacon inside of a hundred thousand miles?
Otherwise, do I have free course?" 

"Absolutely free course, Masters. Anything you do after the beacon is okay, ifyou get back. Advise you don't cut into asteroids, however." 

"No danger of that. Thanks, Kor." 

I'd already passed the reversing point, but that wasn't worrying me. I snappedoff the power, leaving only the automat cut into the steering tubes, and gazedstraight ahead. Sure enough, there was Jupiter, with his markings and all; thefellow that was going to let me maintain full speed over halfway, and make thelong course the faster one. I was remembering Jimmy's remark that put the ideainto my head: "A man can pick the fuel he wants, the same as he can travel anycourse he wants, no matter how long." 

With power off, I was still ticking off about seven million miles an hour, butI couldn't feel it. Instead, I felt plenty sick, without any feeling of weightat all. But I couldn't bother about that. Kor was calling again, but I shutthem off with a few words. If I was crazy, that was my business, and the shipwas doing okay. 

I set the buzzer to wake me when I figured I'd be near Olsen. Looking out,
when the thing went off, I could see his jets shooting out away off side, anda little ahead. But he was cutting his speed sharply, while I was riding free,
and I began sliding past him. 

I was all set to gloat when his voice barked in over the ultraset: "Masters!
Calling Masters!" 

"Okay, Olsen." 

"Man, decelerate! You'll crack up on Jupiter at that rate. If something'swrong, say so. We're way out ahead, and there's plenty of time. Give me theword and I'll try to cut in on you. The Tar Baby's strong enough to hold backyour soup can. How about it, Masters?" 

That was the guy I'd been hating for a glory hound, figuring him as out forhimself only. "No need, Olsen, but a load of thanks. I'm trying out a hunch to 


steal first place from you." 

The relief in his voice was as unquestionable as his bewilderment "It's okayif you can do it, mister. I'll still make the special. Why not let me in onthe hunch? I won't crib your idea." 

"Okay, but I don't know how it'll work, for sure. I'm going around Jupiter atfull speed instead of cutting to the beacon." 

"You're crazy, Masters." The idea didn't appeal to him at all. "Hope yourtubes hold up under the extra eighty million miles. So long!" 

Sixty-seven hours out of Kor I passed the beacon at the required hundredthousand miles—which isn't as wide a margin at full speed as it sounds—andheaded out. Olsen must have called ahead to tell them what I was doing,
because the beacon acknowledged my call, verified my distance, and signed offwithout questions. 

I caught an hour's sleep again, and then Jupiter was growing uncomfortablyclose. I'd already been over my calculations twenty times, but so darned muchdepended on them that I wasn't taking chances. I ran them through again. Thebig fellow was coming up alongside like a mountain rolling toward an ant, andI was already closer than anyone I'd ever heard of. 

But it worked out all right, at first. I grazed around the side, was caught inhis gravity, and began to swing in an orbit. Thaf s what I'd been looking for,
something to catch hold of out in space to swing me around without loss ofmomentum, and that's what I'd found; Jupiter's gravity pulled me around like alead weight on a swung rope. 

Which was fine—if I had enough speed to make him let go again, as close as Iwas to his surface. Fortunately, he hasn't any extensive atmosphere to speakof—beyond that which creates his apparent surface—in proportion to hisdiameter, or I'd have been warmed up entirely too much for pleasant living. Inno time I was coming around and facing back in the general direction of Mars;
and then two things happened at once. 

Jupiter wasn't letting me go on schedule; he seemed to think he needed alittle more time for observation of this queer satellite he'd just caught. Andlo swung up right where it shouldn't have been.. I'd forgotten the moons! 

That's when I began counting heartbeats. Either Jupiter pulled me too far, orhe threw me square into lo, and I didn't like either prospect. The steeringtubes were worthless in the short space I had at that speed. I waited, andJupiter began to let go—with lo coming up! 

Whishh! I could hear—or imagine, I don't know which—the outer edges of themoon's atmosphere whistle briefly past the sides of my 80up can, and thensilence. When I opened my eyes, lo lay behind, with Jupiter, and I was headedstraight for the beacon. Dear old lo! 

Light as its gravity was, it had still been enough to correct the slight errorin my calculations and set me back on my course, even if I did corne too closefor my peace of mind. 

I was asleep when I passed the beacon again, so I don't know what they had tosay. It was Olsen's call that woke me up. 


"Congratulations, Masters! When you reach Mars, tell them to hold the specialand second prizes for me. And I'll remember the trick. Clear dodging!" He wasstill heading in toward the beacon on deceleration, and less than eighty hourshad passed. 

Well, there wasn't much more to it, except for the sleeping and the ravings ofthat fool announcer back on Kor. I reversed without any trouble at about thepoint where I'd stopped accelerating and began braking down for Mars. Then themonotony of the trip began again, with the automat doing all the work. Thetubes, safe for six days, would be used for only about three and a half,
thanks to all that time with power off, and I had soup to spare. 

Miraculously, they had the landing pit cleared when I settled down over Kor,
and the sweetest-looking white ambulance was waiting. I set her down without ajolt, slipped out, and was inside the car before the crowds could get to me.
They've finally learned to protect the winning dodger that way. 

Jimmy was inside, chewing on an unlit cigarette. "Okay," he told the ambulancedriver, "take us to Mom Doughan's. Hi, kid. Made it in a hundred and forty-
five hours. That gives you first and special, so you're out of the red. Nicework!" 

I couldn't help rubbing it in a little. "Next time, Jimmy, bet on a Masters ifyou want to go through with those endowments of yours." Jimmy's face was glum,
and the cigarette bobbed up and down in his mouth in a dull rhythm, but hiseyes crinkled up and he showed no rancor at the crack. "There won't be anyendowments, kid. Should have stuck to the old handicapping, instead of tryingto start something new. I'm cleaned, lock, stock, and barrel. Anyway, thoseendowment dreams were just sort of a habit." "You've still got your formula." 

"Um-hm. Your fuel formula; I'm sticking to the old habits and letting thenewfangled ideas go hang." 

I stopped playing with him then. "That's where you're wrong, Jimmy. I did alot of thinking out there, and I've decided some habits are things to get ridof." 

"Maybe." He didn't sound very convinced. "How'd you mean?" "Well, take the oldidea that the shortest time is made on the shortest possible course; that's ahabit with pilots, and one I had a 

hard time breaking. But look what happened. And Dad had one habit, youanother, and you'd both have been better off without those fixations." 

"Um-hm. Go on." 

"Dad thought a fuel was good only in racing, because he was used to thinkingin terms of the perambulating soup cans," I explained. I'd done plenty ofthinking on the way in, when I was awake, so I knew what I was talking about.
"You had a habit of thinking of everything in terms of betting. Take thatfuel. You say it gives eighty percent efficiency. Did you ever stop to thinkthere'd be a fortune in it for sale to the commercials? The less load theycarry in fuel, the more pay cargo." 

"Well, I'll be—" He mulled it over slowly, letting the idea seep in. Then henoticed the cigarette in his mouth and started to light it. 


I amplified the scheme. "We'll market it fifty-fifty. You put up the fuel andsalesmanship; I'll put up the prize money and technical knowledge. And ifyou're looking for fame, there ought to be some of that mixed up in there,
too." 

"Um-hm." Jimmy stuck out his hand. "Shake on the partnership, Len. But, if youdon't mind, I'll use the money like I said. Those endowment ideas sort of gotto be a habit with me." 

I read "Habit" when it first came out in the magazine and somehow never readit again until I began putting this book together. Now I wonder why Campbellbought it, or why he ever thought it deserved a bonus. He must have been veryhard up for short fiction on the day it came in. 

I could probably try to excuse it by suggesting that (to my knowledge) it wasthe first story that pointed out that high acceleration could be toleratedmuch better in a prone position than when stand-' ing or sitting. But that's aminor virtue, and it has a major error in icience that renders the whole thinginvalid. 

At the time, I figured the course of the rocket race very carefully, and thetime and distances given are correct enough. But then I have I lie little shipwhipped around Jupiter and brought back to head toward Mars—when the ship isgoing some seven million miles an hour. This is the result of pure, sloppycarelessness. Jupiter does have a itrong gravity, and a ship could be made toturn through 180° when going close to it—but only if the ship was doing lessthan 100,000 miles an hour. That's an error of seventy times in my figures. 

Of course, I didn't bother to figure it out. The formula for centrifugal forceis a bit complicated, with a lot of figures beyond the decimal point. Soinstead of sitting down and calculating it, I took it for granted. And that'spretty inexcusable in science fiction. I've always prided myself on figuringthings out, but this story doesn't bear any degree of pride. 

There was another error in the magazine version, which seemed to make mesuggest that Jupiter had no atmosphere. Even in those days, I knew thatJupiter had more atmosphere than any other planet! On checking with mymanuscript when the story was published, I found that several lines had beenomitted in setting it. 

Well, as Campbell told me at the time, "those things just happen and somehowslip by." But I've tried to restore them in this copy, to reduce the needlesserrors by one, at least. 

So far as possible, incidentally, all the stories in this book are appearingexactly as I wrote them, except for the last one (which will be explained whenwe come to it). I think it only fair that something meant to show my earlywriting should show it as I wrote it. And the magazine versions sometimesdiffer to a considerable amount. 

Generally, Campbell made fewer alterations than most editors; he expected hiswriters to turn in finished copy, not stuff he had to rewrite. But certainchanges are necessary, as I've learned from my own experience in editing.
Sometimes a story has to be cut slightly because it takes up only a few lineson the last page, leaving too much blank space to be filled in. Sometimes itrequires minor changes to get rid of "widows"—incomplete or short lines at the 


top of a page, which make the page look wrong. There are a number of otherlegitimate reasons for such changes and deletions in a writer's copy. I don'tobject to them, but I see no reason to perpetuate purely mechanical changes. 

Where I've had originals, I've followed them exactly. In many cases, due to abasement that flooded, my carbon copies were almost useless, but did enable meto check against the published version. And in a few cases, such as "Habit,"
I've filled in where I clearly remember noting changes in the magazine versionwhen I read it. In any event, these stories will be closer to what I wrotethan any other version to appear in print. 

I haven't the faintest idea of how good or bad the next story I wrote was. Theonly information I have on it is a list which shows the order in which it waswritten, the length, and the title. It was called "Glory," it ran for 5,000words, and was meant for Unknown. It 

bounced back to me, and even Campbell's rejection must have been prettyroutine, since it's one of the few that don't stick in my mind. Generally,
hardly a memorable story. 

I can remember that both "Habit" and "Glory" were written during my onlyattempt to write on something like a schedule. The idea is a fine one. Everymorning for a certain number of days of the week, the writer is supposed tosit down at his typewriter and stay there for a fixed number of hours. I'dfigured out that four hours a day for three days a week would work out verywell. If I turned out a thousand words an hour average—allowing for all kindsof bad starts, thinking up new plots, etc.—it would produce something veryrespectable as an income, even if only half of what I wrote sold. There arelots of fallacies built into that idea, but some writers can make it work. 

I can't. When I get a story started, I have to keep with it. I gain momentumas I go along. Ideas seem to pop into my head for its development at a speedthat increases slightly faster than my writing speed does. I can even work upa mild fever when I'm really going, and that seems to help. But if I stop, Iusually find I'm dull when I return, that the ideas have all flown, and thatit's like starting all over again. 

I've found that true for novels, too. Once I can get one moving, I stay withit for sixty to eighty pages at a stretch, only breaking when some developmentwill offer a fresh start. And I've turned out 180 pages in one case withoutever leaving the typewriter—though that was because I'd gotten myself into ahorrible jam and had to finish the book at once. That novel is at least asgood as others over which I labored much longer. 

Anyhow, that attempt to be systematic came to a sudden end after the fiasco of"Glory." I reverted to my normal sloppy and rather lackadaisical habits, and afeeling of deep peace came over me to exceed any that may have blessed Abouben Adhem. f 

When I came back to the typewriter, it was fun to begin writing again, and theresult was much better. I wrote my longest story up to that time (14,500words) and Campbell accepted it and sent a prompt check for $187.50. It wascalled "The Smallest God." 

5. The Smallest God 
(by Lester del Rey) I 


Dr. Arlington Brugh led his visitor around a jumble of machinery that madesense only to himself, and through a maze of tables and junk that occupiedmost of his laboratory. 

"It's a little disordered just now," he apologized, glad that his assistanthad been able to clear up the worst of the mess. "Sort of gets that way aftera long experiment." 

Herr Dr. Ernst Meyer nodded heavy agreement. "Ja, so. Und mit all dismatchinery, no vunder. It gives yet no goot place v'ere I can mit comfortvork, also in mine own laboradory. Und v'at haff ve here?" 

"That's Hermes—my mascot." Brugh picked up the little, hollow rubber figure ofthe god Hermes; Mercury, the Romans called him. "The day I bought him for mydaughter, the funds for my cyclotron were voted on favorably, so I've kept himhere. Just a little superstition." 

Meyer shook his head. "Nein. I mean here." He tapped a heavy lead chestbearing a large Keep Out label. "Is maybe v'at you make?" 

"That's right." The physical chemist pulled up the heavy cover and displayed afew dirty crystals in a small compartment and a thick, tarry goo that filled ahalf-liter beaker. "Those are my latest success and my first failure. By theway, have you see Dr. Hodges over in the biochemistry department?" 

"Ja. Vonderful vork he makes yet, nicht wahr?" 

"Umm. Opinions differ. I'll admit he did a good job in growing that syntheticamoeba, and the worm he made in his chemical bath wasn't so bad, though Inever did know whether it was really alive or not. Maybe you read about it?
But he didn't stick to simple things until he mastered his technique. He hadto go rambling off trying to create a synthetic man." 

Meyer's rough face gleamed. "Ja, so. Dot is hiibsch—nice. Mit veins undmuschles. Only it is not mit life upfilled." 

Brugh sifted a few of the crystals in the chest out onto a watch glass wherethey could be inspected more carefully. Then he put them into an opened drawerand closed it until the crystals were in a much dimmer light. In thesemidarkness, a faint gleam was visible, hovering over the watch glass. 

"Radioactive," he explained. "There is the reason Hodges' man isn't filledwith life. If there had been some of this in his chemical bath when he was 
growing Anthropos—that's what he calls the thing—it would be walking aroundtoday. But you can't expect a biochemist to know that, of course. They don'tkeep up with the latest developments the way the physical chemists do. Most ofthem aren't aware of the fact that the atom can be cracked up into a differentkind of atom by using Bertha." 

"Bert'a? Maybe she is die daughter?" 

Brugh grinned. "Bertha's the cyclotron over there. The boys started callingher Big Bertha, and then we just named her Bertha for short." He swung aroundto indicate the great mass of metal that filled one end of the room. "That's alot of material to make so few crystals of radioactive potassium chloride,
though." 


"Ach, so. Den it is das radioagdivated salt dot vould give life to dersynt'etic man, eh?" 

"Right. We're beginning to believe that life is a combination of electricityand radioactivity, and the basis of the last seems to be this active potassiumwe've produced by bombarding the ordinary form with neutrons. Put that inAnthropos and he'd be bouncing around for his meals in a week." 

Meyer succeeded in guessing the meaning of the last and cocked up a bushyeyebrow. "Den v'y not das salt to der man give?" 

"And have Hodges hog all the glory again? Not a chance." He banged his hand onthe chest for emphasis, and the six-inch figure of Hermes bounced from itsprecarious perch and took off for the watch glass. Brugh grabbed franticallyand caught it just before it hit. "Someday I'll stuff this thing withsomething heavy enough to hold it down." 

The German looked at the statue with faint interest, then pointed to the gummymess in the beaker. "Und dis?" 

"That's a failure. Someday I might analyze a little of it, but it's too hardto get the stuff out of that tar, and probably not worth a quarter of theenergy. Seems to be a little of everything in it, includ


ing potassium, and it's fairly radioactive, but all it's good for is—well, tostuff Hermes so he can't go bouncing around." 

Brugh propped the little white figure against a ring stand and drew out thebeaker, gouging out a chunk of the varicolored tar. He plopped it into acontainer and poured methyl alcohol over it, working with a glass rod until itwas reasonably plastic. "Darned stuff gets soft, but it won't dissolve," hegrumbled. 

Meyer stood back, looking on, shaking his head gently. Americans werenaturally crazy, but he hadn't expected such foolishness from so distinguisheda research man as Dr. Brugh. In his own laboratory, he'd have spent the nexttwo years, if necessary, in finding out what the tar was, instead of wastingit to stuff a cheap rubber cast of a statue. 

"Dis Herr Dr. Hodges, you don't like him, I t'ink. Warum?" 

Brugh was spooning the dough into his statue, forcing it into the tiny mouthand packing it in loosely. "Hodges wanted a new tank for his life-cultureexperiments when I was trying to get the cyclotron and the cloud chamber. Ihad to dig up the old antivivisection howl among the students' parents to keephim from getting it, and he thought it was a dirty trick. Maybe it was;
anyway, he's been trying ever since to get me kicked out, and switch theappropriations over to this department. By the way, I'd hate to have word ofthis get around." 

"Aber—andivifisegtion!" Meyer was faintly horrified at such an unscientificthing. 

Brugh nodded. "I know. But I wanted that cyclotron, and I got it; I'd doworse. There, Hermes won't go flying around again. Anything else I can showyou, Dr. Meyer?" 


"Tank you, no. Der clock is late now, und I must cadge my train by die hour.
It has a bleasure been, Dr. Brugh." 

"Not at all." Brugh set the statue on a table and went out with the German,
leaving Hermes in sole possession of the laboratory, except for the cat. 

The clock in the laboratory said four o'clock in the morning. Its hum and thegentle breathing of the cat, that exercised its special privileges by sleepingon the cyclotron, were the only noises to be heard. Up on the table Hermesstood quietly, just as Dr. Brugh had left him, a little white rubber figureoutlined in the light that shone through from the outside. A very ordinarylittle statue he looked. 

But inside, where the tar had been placed, something was stirring 

gently. Faintly and low at first, life began to quiver. Consciousness began tocome slowly, and then a dim and hazy feeling of individuality. He wasdifferent in being a unit not directly connected in consciousness with the dimoutlines of the laboratory. 

What, where, when, who, why, and how? Hermes knew none of the answers, and thequestions were only vague and hazy in his mind, but the desire to know and tounderstand was growing. He took in the laboratory slowly through the hole thatformed his partly open mouth and let the light stream in against the resinousmatter inside. At first, only a blur was visible, but as his "eyes" grew moreproficient from experience, he made out separate shapes. He had no names forthem, but he recognized the difference between a round tube and a squaretabletop. 

The motion of the second hand caught his attention, and he studied the clockcarefully, but could make no sense to it. Apparently some things moved andothers didn't. What little he could see of himself didn't, even when he made aclumsy attempt at forcing motion into his outthrust arm. It took longer tonotice the faint breathing of the cat; then he noticed it not only moved, butdid so in an irregular fashion. He strained toward it, and something clickedin his mind. 

Tabby was dreaming, but Hermes couldn't know that, nor understand from whencecame the pictures that seemed to flash across his gummy brain; Tabby didn'tunderstand dreams, either. But the little god could see some tiny creaturethat went scurrying rapidly across the floor, and a much-distorted picture ofTabby following it. Tabby had a definitely exaggerated idea of herself. Nowthe little running figure began to grow until it was twice the size of thecat, and its appearance altered. It made harsh explosive noises and beat athick tail stiffly. Tabby's picture made a noise and fled, but the otherfollowed quickly and a wide mouth opened. Tabby woke up, and the picturesdisappeared. Hermes could make no sense of them, though^ it was plain inTabby's mind that such things often happened when her head turned blackinside. 

But the cat awake was even more interesting than she was sleeping. 

There were the largest groups of loosely classified odors, sights, and 


sensations to be absorbed, the nicest memories of moving about and 

exploring the laboratory. Through Tabby's eyes he saw the part of 

the laboratory that was concealed from him, and much of the out


ide in the near neighborhood. He also drew a hazy picture of him


clf being filled, but it made no sense to him, though he gathered 

Irom the cat's mind that the huge monster holding him was to be 

both despised and respected, and was, all in all, a very powerful person. 

By now his intelligence was great enough to recognize that the world seenthrough the cat's eyes was in many ways wrong. For one thing, everything wasin shades of white and black, with medial grays, while he had already seenthat there were several colors. Hermes decided that he needed another point ofview, though the cat had served admirably to start his mind on the way to someunderstanding of the world about him. 

A low howling sound came from outside the laboratory, and Hermes recoiledmentally, drawing a picture of a huge and ferocious beast from his secondhandcat's memory. Then curiosity urged him to explore. If the cat's color sensewas faulty, perhaps her ideas on the subject of dogs were also wrong. Hethrust his mind out toward the source of the sound, and again there was thelittle click that indicated a bridge between two minds. 

He liked the dog much better than the cat. There was more to be learned here,
and the animal had some faint understanding of a great many mysteries whichhad never interested Tabby. Hermes also found that hard, selfish emotions werenot the only kind. On the whole, the mind of Shep seemed warm and glowingafter the frigid self-interest of Tabby. 

First in the dog's mind, as in all others, was the thought of self, but closebehind was mistress and master, the same person whom the cat's mind hadpictured filling the god. And there were the two little missies. Somethingabout the dog's mental image of one of them aroused an odd sensation in thelittle god, but it was too confused to be of any definite interest. 

But the dog retained hazy ideas of words as a means of thought, and Hermesseized on them gratefully. He gathered that men used them as a medium ofthought conveyance, and filed the sixty partly understood words of Shep'svocabulary carefully away. There were others with tantalizing possibilities,
but they were vague. 

Shep's world was much wider than that of Tabby, and his general impression ofcolor—for dogs do see colors—was much better. The world became a fascinatingplace as he pictured it, and Hermes longed for the mysterious power ofmobility that made wide explorations possible. He tried to glean the secret,
but all that Shep knew on the subject was that movement followed desire, andsometimes came without any wish. 

The god came to the conclusion that in all the world the only an


imals that could satisfy his curiosity were men. His mind was still too youngto be bothered with such trifles as modesty, and he was quite sure there could 


be no animal with a better intelligence than he had. The dog couldn't evenread thoughts, and Hermes had doubts about man's ability to do the same;
otherwise, why should the master have punished Shep for fighting, when theother dog had dearly started it? 

And if he hadn't, Shep would have been home, instead of skulking around thisplace, where he sometimes came to meet the master after work. 

Hermes tried to locate a man's mind, but there was none near. He caught avague eddy of jumbled thought waves from someone who was evidently locatedthere to guard the building, but there was a definite limit to the space thatthought could span. 

The cat's brain had gone black inside again, with only fitful imagesflickering on and off, and the dog was drifting into a similar state. Hermesstudied the action with keen interest and decided that sleep might be a veryfine way of passing the time until a man came back to the laboratory, as hegathered they did every time some big light shone from somewhere high upabove. 

But as he concentrated on the matter of turning off his mind, he wonderedagain what he was. Certainly neither a dog nor a cat, he had no real beliefthat he was a man; the dog didn't know about him, but the cat regarded him asa stone. Maybe he was one, if stones ever came to life. Anyway, he'd find outin the morning when the master came in. Until then he forced thoughts from hismind and succeeded in simulating sleep. 

Ill 

A strange noise wakened Hermes in the morning. From what he had seen in Shep'smind, he knew it was the sound of human speech, and listened intently. Thepeople were talking at a point behind him, but he was sure it was the masterand one of the little missies. He tuned his mind in on that of the master and 
began soaking up impressions. 

"I wish you'd stay away from young Thomas," Dr. Brugh was saying. "I thinkhe's the nephew of Hodges, though he won't admit it. Your mother doesn't likehim either, Tanya." 

Tanya laughed softly at her father's suspicions, and Hermes felt a glow allover. It was a lovely sound. "You never like my boyfriends," she said. "Ithink you want me to grow up into an old-maid school


marm. Johnny's a nice boy. To hear you talk, a person would think Hodges andhis whole family were ogres." 

"Maybe they are." But Brugh knew better than to argue with his older daughter;
she always won, just as her mother always did. "Hodges tried to swindle me outof my appropriations again at the meeting last night. He'd like to see meruined." 

"And you swindled him out of his tanks. Suppose I proved to the president whosent those anonymous vivisection letters to all the parents?" 

Brugh looked around hastily, but there was no one listening. "Are you tryingto blackmail me, Tanya?" 


She laughed again at his attempt at anger. "You know I won't tell a soul.
'Bye, Dad. I'm going swimming with Johnny." Hermes felt a light kiss throughBrugh's senses, and saw her start around the table to pass in front of him. Hesnapped the connection with the master's mind and prepared his own eyes forconfirmation of what he had seen by telepathy. 

Tanya was a vision of life and loveliness. In the fleeting second it took forher to cross the little god's range of sight, he took in the soft, wavingbrown hair, the dark, sparkling eyes, and the dimple that lurked in the cornerof her mouth, and something happened to Hermes. As yet he had no word for it,
but it was pure sensation that sped through every atom of his synthetic soul.
He began to appreciate that life was something more than the satisfaction ofcuriosity. 

A sound from Brugh, who was puttering around with a cloudy precipitate,
snapped him back to reality. The questions in his mind still needed answering,
and the physicist was the logical one to answer them. Again he made contactwith the other's mind. 

This was infinitely richer than the dog's and cat's combined. For one thing,
there was a seemingly inexhaustible supply of word thoughts to be gleaned. Ashe absorbed them, thinking became easier, and the words provided a frameworkfor abstractions, something utterly beyond the bounds of the animal minds. Forhalf an hour he studied them, and absorbed the details of human lifegradually. 

Then he set about finding the reasons for his own life; that necessitatedlearning the whole field of physical chemistry, which occupied another halfhour, and when he had finished, he began putting the knowledge he had gleanedtogether, until it made sense. 

All life, he had found, was probably electricity and radioactivity, the lattersupplied by means of a tiny amount of potassium in the 

human body. But life was really more than that. There were actions andinteractions between the two things that had thus far baffled all students.
Some of them baffled the rubber god, but he puzzled the general picture out tohis own satisfaction. 

When the experiment had gone wrong and created the tarry lump that formed thereal life of Hermes, there had been a myriad of compounds and odd arrangementsof atom formed in it, and the tarry gum around them had acted as a medium fortheir operation. Then, when they were slightly softened by the addition ofalcohol, they had begun to work, arranging and rearranging themselves into aninteracting pattern that was roughly parallel to human life and thought. 

But there were differences. For one thing, he could read thoughts accurately,
and for another, he had a sense of perception which could analyze matterdirectly from its vibrations. For another, what he called sight and sound weremerely other vibrations, acting directly on his life substance instead of bymeans of local sensory organs. He realized suddenly that he could see with hismouth instead of his eyes, and hear all over. Only the rubber casing preventedhim from a full 360° vision. But, because of the minds he had tapped, he hadlearned to interpret those vibrations in a more or less conventional pattern. 

Hermes analyzed the amount of radioactive potassium in Brugh's body carefullyand compared it with his own. There was a great difference, which probably 


accounted for his more fully developed powers. Something ached vaguely insidehim, and he felt giddy. He turned away from his carefully ordered thoughts toinspect this new sensation. 

The alcohol inside him was drying out—almost gone, in fact, and his tarryinterior was growing thicker. He'd have to do something about it. 

"Dr. Brugh," he thought, fixing his attention on the other, "could I have somealcohol, please? My thoughts will be slowed even below human level if I can'thave some soon." 

Arlington Brugh shook his head to clear it of a sudden buzz, but he had notunderstood. Hermes tried again, using all the remaining thought power he couldmuster. 

"This is Hermes, Dr. Brugh. You brought me to life, and I want some alcohol,
please!" 

Brugh heard this time, and swung suspiciously toward the end of the room,
where his assistant was working. But the young man was 

engaged in his work, and showed no sign of having spoken or heard. Hermesrepeated his request, squeezing out his fast failing energy, and the masterjerked quickly, turning his eyes slowly around the room. Again Hermes tried,
and the other twitched. 

Brugh grabbed for his hat and addressed the assistant. "Bill, I'm going for alittle walk to clear my head. The session last night seems to have put funnyideas in it." He paused. "Oh, better toss that little rubber statue into thecan for the junkman. It's beginning to get on my nerves." 

He turned sharply and walked out of the room. Hermes felt the rough hands ofthe assistant, and felt himself falling. But his senses were leaving him,
drained by the loss of alcohol and the strain of forcing his mind on themaster. He sank heavily into the trash can and his mind grew blank. 

A splatter of wetness against Hermes' mouth brought him back to consciousness,
and he saw a few drops fall near him from a broken bottle that was tippedsidewise. Occasionally one found its way through his mouth, and he soaked itup greedily. Little as he got, the alcohol still had been enough to start hisdormant life into renewed activity. 

There was a pitch and sway to the rubbish on which he lay, and a rumblingnoise came from in front of him. Out of the corner of his "eye" he saw a lineof poles running by, and knew he was on something that moved. Momentarily hetapped the mind of the driver and found he was on a truck bound for the citydump, where all garbage was disposed of. But he felt no desire to use thelittle energy he had in mind reading, so he fell back to studying the smallsupply of liquid left in the bottle. 

There was an irregular trickle now, running down only a few inches from him.
He studied the situation carefully, noting that the bottle was well anchoredto its spot, while he was poised precariously on a little mound of rubbish.
One of Newton's laws of momentum flashed through his mind from the mass ofinformation he had learned through Brugh; if the truck were to speed up, he 


would be thrown backward, directly under the stream trickling down from thebottle—and with luck he might land face up. 

Hermes summoned his energy and directed a wordless desire for speed toward thedriver. The man's foot came down slowly on the accelerator, but too slowly.
Hermes tried again, and suddenly felt 

himself pitched backward—to land face down! Then a squeal of brakes reachedhis ears, as the driver counteracted his sudden speed, and the smallest godfound himself rolling over, directly under the stream. 

There were only a few teaspoons left, splashing out irregularly as thebouncing of the truck threw the liquid back and forth in the fragment ofglass, but most of them reached his mouth. The truck braked to a halt andbegan reversing, and the last drops fell against his lips. It was highlyimpure alcohol, filled with raw chemicals from the laboratory, but Hermes hadno complaints. He could feel the tar inside him soften, and he lay quietlyenjoying the sensation until new outside stimuli caught his attention. 

The truck had ceased backing and was parked on a slope leading down toward therear. There was a rattle of chains and the gate dropped down to let the loadgo spinning out down the bank into the rubbish-filled gully. Hermes bouncedfrom a heavy can and went caroming off sidewise, then struck against a rockwith force enough to send white sparks of pain running through him. 

But the rock had changed his course and thrown him clear of the other trash.
When he finally stopped, his entire head and one arm were clear, and the restwas buried under only a loose litter of papers and dirt. No permanent damagehad been done; his tarry core was readjusting itself to the normal shape ofthe rubber coating, and he was in no immediate danger. 

But being left here was the equivalent of a death sentence. His only hope wasto contact some human mind and establish friendly communications, and the dumpheap was the last place to find men. Added to that, the need for furtheralcohol was a serious complication. Again he wished for the mysterious powerof motion. 

He concentrated his mental energy on moving the free arm, but there was nochange; the arm stayed at the same awkward angle. With little hope, he triedagain, watching for the slightest movement. This time a finger bent slightly!
Feverishly he tried to move the others, and they twisted slowly until hiswhole hand lay stretched out flat. Then his arm began to move sluggishly. Hewas learning. 

It was growing dark when he finally drew himself completely free of the trashand lay back to rest, exulting over his newfound ability. The alcohol wasresponsible, of course; it had softened the tar slightly more than it had beenwhen he made his first efforts in the 

laboratory, and permitted motion of a sort through a change of surfacetension. The answer to further motion was more alcohol. 

There were bottles of all kinds strewn about, and he stared at those withinhis range of vision, testing their vibrations in the hope of finding a fewmore drops. The nearer ones were empty, except for a few that containedbrackish rainwater. But below him, a few feet away, was a small-sized onewhose label indicated that it had contained hair tonic. The cork was in 


tightly, and it was still half full of a liquid. That liquid was largely ethylalcohol. 

Hermes forced himself forward on his stomach, drawing along inch by inch.
Without the help of gravity, he could never have made it, but the distanceshortened. He gave a final labored hitch, clutched the bottle in his tinyhands, and tried to force the cork out. It was wedged in too firmly! 

Despair clutched at him, but he threw it off. There must be some way. Glasswas brittle, could be broken easily, and there were stones and rocks aboutwith which to strike it. The little god propped the neck of the bottle upagainst one and drew himself up to a sitting position, one of the stones inhis hands. He could not strike rapidly enough to break the glass, but had torely on raising the rock and letting it fall. 

Fortunately for his purpose, the bottle had been cracked by its fall, and thefourth stone shattered the neck. Hermes forced it up on a. broken box andtipped it gingerly toward his mouth. The smell of it was sickening, but he hadno time to be choosy about his drinks! There was room inside him to hold adozen teaspoonfuls, and he meant to fill those spaces. 

The warm sensation of softening tar went through him gratefully as the liquidwas absorbed. According to what he had read in Brugh's mind, he should havebeen drunk, but it didn't feel that way. It more nearly approximated thesensation of a man who had eaten more than he should and hadn't time to be 
sorry yet. 

Hermes wriggled his toes comfortably and nodded his approval at the ease withwhich they worked. Another idea came to him, and he put it to the test. Wherehis ear channels were, the rubber was almost paper-thin; he put out apseudopod of tar from the lumps inside his head and wriggled it against themembrane; a squeaky sound was produced like a radio speaker gone bad. Hevaried the speed of the feeler, alternating it until he discovered thevariation of tones and overtones necessary, and tried a human word. 

"Tanyal" It wasn't perfect, but there could be no question as to 

what it was. Now he could talk with men directly, even with Tanya Brugh, iffate was particularly kind. He conjured up an ecstatic vision of her face andattempted a conventional sighing sound. Men in love evidently were supposed tosigh, and Hermes was in love! 

But if he wanted to see her, he'd have to leave the dump. It was dark now, butultraviolet and infrared light were as useful to him as the so-called visiblebeams, and the amount of light needed to set off his sight was less than thatfor a cat. With soiled hands he began pulling his way up the bank, burrowingthrough the surface rubbish. Then he reached the top and spied the main pathleading away. 

His little feet twinkled brightly in the starlight, and the evening dew washedthe stains from his body. A weasel, prowling for food, spied him and debatedattack, but decided to flee when the little god pictured himself as a dog.
Animals accepted such startling apparent changes without doubting theirsanity. He chuckled at the tricks he could play on Tabby when he got back, andsped down the lane at a good two miles an hour. 


Brugh worked late in the laboratory, making up for the time he had taken offto clear his head. All thoughts of his trouble with Hermes had vanished. Hecleared up the worst of the day's litter of dirty apparatus, arranged thingsfor the night, and locked up. 

Dixon, head of the organic chemistry department, was coming down the hall asthe physicist left. He stopped, his pudgy face beaming, and greeted the other.
"Hi, there, Brugh. Working late again?" 

"A little. How's the specific for tuberculosis going?" 

Dixon patted his paunch amiably. "Not bad. We're able to get the metal poisoninto the dye, and the dye into the bug. We still can't get much of the poisonout of the dye after that to kill our friend, the bacillus, but we've beenable to weaken him a little. By the way, I saw your daughter today, out withHodges' nephew, and she told me-" 

"You mean Johnny Thomas?" Brugh's eyebrows furrowed tightly and met at thecorners. "So Hodges is his uncle! Hmmm." 

"Still fighting the biochemistry department?" By a miracle of tact and goodnature, Dixon had managed to keep on friendly terms with both men. "I wish youtwo would get together; Hodges is really a pretty decent sort. . . . Well, Ididn't think so; you're both too stub-bom for your own good. That nephew ofhis isn't so good, though. Came up here to pump money out of his uncle and getaway from 

some scandal in New York. His reputation isn't any too savory. Wouldn't wantmy daughter going with him." 

"Don't worry; Tanya won't be going with Hodges' nephew any longer. Thanks forthe tip." They reached the main door, and Brugh halted suddenly. "Damnl" 

"What is it?" 

"I left my auto keys on the worktable upstairs. Don't bother waiting for me,
Dixon. I'll see you in the morning." 

Dixon smiled. "Absentminded professor, eh? All right, good night." He went outthe door and down the steps while Brugh climbed back to his laboratory, wherehe found the keys without further trouble. Fortunately he carried a spare doorkey to the lab in his pocket; it wasn't the first time he'd done this fooltrick. 

As he passed down the hall again, a faint sound of movement caught his ear andhe turned toward Hodges' laboratory. There was no one there, and the door waslocked, the lights all out. Brugh started for the stairs, then turned back. 

"Might as well take advantage of an opportunity when I get it," he muttered.
"I'd like to see the creation of Hodges, as long as he won't know about it."
He slipped quietly to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it shut after him. Theone key unlocked every door in the building and the main entrance; he had toomuch trouble losing keys to carry more than needed with him. 

There was no mistaking the heavy tank on the low table, and Brugh movedquietly to it, lifted the cover, and stared inside. There was a light in the 


tank that went on automatically when the cover was raised, and the details ofthe body inside were clearly defined. Brugh was disappointed; he had beenhoping for physical defects, but the figure was that of a young man, almosttoo classically perfect in body, and with an intelligent, handsome face. Therewas even a healthy pink glow to the skin. 

But there was no real life, no faintest spark of animation or breathing.
Anthropos lay in his nutritive bath, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceilingand seeing nothing. "No properly radioactive potassium," Brugh gloated. "In away, it's a pity, too. I'd like to work on you." 

He put the cover down and crept out again, making sure that the night watchmanwas not around. The man seldom left the first floor, anyway; who'd steallaboratory equipment? Brugh reached for his keys and fumbled with them, tryingto find the proper one. It wasn't 

on the key ring. "Damn!" he said softly. "I suppose it fell off back on thetable." 

But he still had the spare, and the other could stay on the table. With theduplicate, he opened and relocked the door, then slipped down the hall toleave the building. Again a faint sound reached him, but he decided it was thecat or a rat moving around. He had other worries. Mrs. Brugh would give himwhat-for for being late again, he supposed. And Tanya probably wouldn't behome yet from the beach. That was another thing to be attended to; there'd beno more running with that young Thomas! 

In the latter supposition, he was wrong; Tanya was there, fooling with herhair and gushing to her mother about a date she had that night with WillYoung. She usually had seven dates a week with at least four different menserving as escorts. Brugh thoroughly approved of Young, however, since he wascompleting his Ph.D. work and acting as lab assistant. Mrs. Brugh approved ofhim because the young man came from a good family and had independent means,
without the need of the long grind up to a full professorship. Tanya waschiefly interested in his six-foot-two, his football reputation, and a newDodge he owned. 

Margaret Brugh spied her husband coming through the door and began her usualworried harangue about his health and overwork. He muttered something about alost key, and Tanya changed the subject for him. Brugh threw her a gratefulsmile and went in to wash up. He decided to postpone the lecture on Thomasuntil after supper; then she was in too much of a hurry to be bothered, and heput it off until morning. 

The old Morris chair was soothing after a full meal—so soothing that the paperfell from his lap and scattered itself over the floor unnoticed, until thejangling of the telephone brought him back with a jerk. "It's for you," hiswife announced. 

The voice was that of Hodges, his nasal Vermont twang unmistaK-able. "Brugh?
Your latest brainstorm backfired on you! I've got evidence against you thistime, so you'd better bring it back." The pitch of the voice indicated furythat was only partly controlled. 

The back hairs on Brugh's neck bristled up hotly, and his voice snapped backharshly. "You're drunk or crazy, like all biochemists! I haven't done anythingto you. Anyway, what is it you want back?" 


"You wouldn't know? How touching, such innocence! I want Anthropos, mysynthetic man. I suppose you weren't in the laboratory this evening?" 

Brugh gulped, remembering the faint noises he had heard. So it had all been atrap! "I never—" 

"Of course. But we had trouble before—someone trying to force his way in—andwe set up a photoelectric eye and camera with film for u.v. light. Didn'texpect to catch you, but there's a nice picture of your face on it, and yourkey is in the lock—the number shows it's yours. I didn't think even you wouldstoop to stealing!" 

Brugh made strangling sounds. "I didn't steal your phony man; wouldn't touchthe thing! Furthermore, I didn't leave a key. Go sleep your insanity off!" 

"Are you going to return Anthropos?" 

"I don't have him." Brugh slammed the receiver down in disgust, snorting. IfHodges thought that he could put such a trick over, he'd find out better. Withall the trumped-up evidence in the world, they'd still have to prove a fewthings. He'd see the president in the morning before Hodges could get to him. 

But he wasn't prepared for the doorbell a half hour later, nor for the blue-
coated figures that stood outside. They wasted no time. 

"Dr. Arlington Brugh? We have a warrant for your arrest, charge being larceny.
If you'll just come along quietly—" 

They were purposeful individuals, and words did no good. Brugh went along—butnot quietly. 

Hermes spied the public highway below him, and began puzzling about whichdirection to take back to town. Brugh had never been out this way, and he hadfailed to absorb the necessary information from the garbage man, so he had noidea of the location of Corton. But there was a man leaning against asignpost, and he might know. 

The little god approached him confidently, now that he could both move andtalk. He wanted to try his new power instead of telepathy, and did not troublewith the man's thoughts, though a faint impression indicated they were highlydisordered. 

"Good evening, sir," he said pleasantly, with only a faint blur to the words.
"Can you direct me to Corton University?" 

The man clutched the signpost and gazed down solemnly, blinking his eyes. "Got'em again," he said dispassionately. "And after cutting down on the stuff,
too. 'Sfunny, they never talked before. Wonder if the snakes'll talk, too,
when I begin seeing them?" 

It made no sense to Hermes, but he nodded wisely and repeated 

his question. From the vibrations, the man was not unacquainted with thevirtues of alcohol. 


The drunk pursed his lips and examined the little figure calmly. "Never hadone like you before. What are you?" 

"I suppose I'm a god," Hermes answered. "Can you direct me to Corton, please?" 

"So it's gods this time, eh? That's what I get for changing brands. Go awayand let me drink in peace." He thought it over slowly as he drew out thebottle. "Want a drink?" 

"Thank you, yes." The little god stretched up and succeeded in reaching thebottle. This time he filled himself to capacity before handing it back. It wasworse than the hair tonic, but there was no question of its tar-softeningproperties. "Could you—?" 

"I know. Corton. To your right and follow the road." The man paused and madegurgling noises. "Whyn't you stick around? I like you; snakes never woulddrink with me." 

Hermes made it quite clear he couldn't stay, and the drunk nodded gravely.
"Always women. I know about that; it's a woman that drove me to this—seeingyou. 'Stoo bad. Well, so long!" 

Filled with the last drink, the god stepped his speed up to almost five milesan hour. There was no danger of fatigue, since the radioactive energy withinhim poured out as rapidly as he could use it, and there were no waste productsto poison his system. His tiny legs flickered along the road, and the littlefeet made faint tapping sounds on the smooth asphalt surface. 

He came over a hill and spied the yellow lights of Corton, still an hour'strot away. It might have been worse. The swishing of the water inside himbothered him, and he decided that he'd stick to straight alcohol hereafter;
whiskey contained too many useless impurities. Hermes flopped over beside theroad, and let the water and some of the oil from the hair tonic trickle out;
the alcohol was already well inside his gummy interior where there was nodanger of losing it. FOP some reason, it seemed to be drying out more slowlythan the first had, and that was all to the good. 

The few cars on the road aroused a faint desire for some easier means of 
locomotion, but otherwise they caused him no trouble. He clipped off the milesat a steady gait, keeping on the edge of the paving, until the outskirts ofthe town had been reached. Then he took to the sidewalk. 

A blue-coated figure, ornamented with brass buttons, was pacing down thestreet toward him, and Hermes welcomed the presence of 

the policeman. One of the duties of an officer was directing people, he hadgathered, and a little direction would be handy. The smallest god stopped andwaited for the other to reach him. 

"Could you direct me to the home of Dr. Arlington Brugh, please?" 

The cop looked about carefully for the speaker. Hermes raised his voice again.
"I'm here, sir." 

Officer O'Callahan dropped his eyes slowly, expecting a drunk, and spied thegod. He let out a startled bellow. "So it's tricks, is it now? Confound that 


Bergen fellow, after drivin' the brats wild about ven-triloquence. Come out o'there, you spalpeen. Tryin' your tricks on an honest police, like as if Ididn't have worries o' me own." 

Hermes watched the officer hunting around in the doorways for what he believedmust be the source of the voice, and decided that there was no use lingering.
He put one foot in front of the other and left the cop. 

"Pssst!" The sound came from an alley a couple of houses below, and Hermespaused. In the shadows, he made out a dirty old woman, her frowsy hair blowingabout her face, her finger crooked enticingly. Evidently she wanted something,
and he turned in hesitantly. 

"That dumb Irish mick," she grunted, and from her breath Hermes recognizedanother kindred spirit; apparently humans were much easier to get along withwhen thoroughly steeped in alcohol, as he was himself. "Sure, now, a bodymight think it's never a word he'd heard o' the Little Folks, and you speakingpolitely, too. Ventrilo-quence, indeed! Was you wanting to know what I mightbe telling you?" 

Hermes stretched his rubber face into a passable smile. "Do you know where Dr.
Arlington Brugh lives? He's a research director at Corton University." 

She shook her head, blinking bleary eyes. "That I don't, but maybe you'd takethe university? It's well I know where that may be." 

Dr. Brugh lived but a short distance from the campus, he knew, and once on theuniversity grounds, Hermes would have no trouble in finding the house. Henodded eagerly. She reached down a filthy hand and caught him up, wrapping afold of her tattered dress about him. 

"Come along, then. I'll be taking you there myself." She paused to let the fewlast drops trickle from a bottle into her wide mouth, and stuck her head outcautiously; the policeman had gone. With a 

grunt of satisfaction, she struck across the street to a streetcar stop. "Tisthe last dime I have, but a sorry day it'll be when Molly McCann can't do afavor for a Little Folk." 

She propped herself against the carstop post and waited patiently, whileHermes pondered the mellowing effects of alcohol again. When the noisy carstopped, she climbed on, clutching him firmly, and he heard only the bumpingof a flat wheel and her heavy breathing. But she managed to keep half awake,
and carried him off the car at the proper place. 

She set him down as gently as unsteady fingers would permit and pointedvaguely at the buildings on the campus. "There you be, and it's the best ofluck I'm wishing you. Maybe, now that I've helped a Little Man, good luck'llbe coming to me. A very good night to you." 

Hermes bowed gravely as he guessed she expected. "My thanks, Molly McCann, foryour kindness, and a very good night to you." He watched her totter away, andturned toward the laboratory building, where he could secure a few more dropsof straight alcohol. After that, he could attend to his other business. 


Tanya Brugh was completely unaware of the smallest god's presence as he stoodon a chair looking across at her. A stray beam of moonlight struck her facecaressingly, and made her seem a creature of velvet and silver, withdrawn insleep from all that was mundane. Hermes probed her mind gently, a littlefearfully. 

Across her mind, a flickering pageant of tall men, strong men, lithe andathletic men, ran in disordered array, and none of them was less than six feettall. Hermes gazed at his own small body, barely six inches high; it wouldnever do. Now the face of John Thomas fitted itself on one of the men, andTanya held the image for a few seconds. The god growled muttered oaths; he hadno love for the Thomas image. Then it flickered into the face of Will Young,*
Brugh's assistant. 

Hermes had probed her thoughts to confirm his own ideas of the wonderfuldelight that Tanya must be, and he was faintly disappointed. In her mind wereinnocence and emptiness—except for men of tall stature. He sighed softly, andreverted to purely human rationalization until he had convinced himself of theTightness of her thoughts. 

But the question of height bothered him. Children, he knew, grew up, but hewas no child, though his age was measured in hours. Some


way, he must gain a new body, or grow taller, and that meant that Dr. Brughwould be needed for advice on the riddle of height increase. 

He dropped quietly from the chair and trotted toward the master's bedroom,
pushing against the door in the hope that it might be open. It wasn't, but hemade a leap for the doorknob and caught it, throwing his slight weight intothe job of twisting it. Finally, the knob turned, and he kicked out againstthe doorjamb with one foot until the door began to swing. Then he dropped downand pushed until he could slide through the opening. For his size, he carrieda goodly portion of strength in his gum-and-rubber body. 

But the master was not in the bed, and the mistress was making slow stranglingsounds that indicated emotional upset. From Brugh's mind, Hermes had picked upa hatred of the sound of a woman crying, and he swung hastily out, wonderingwhat the fuss was about. There was only one person left, and he headed towardthe little Missie Katherine's room. 

She was asleep when he entered, but he called softly: "Miss Kitty." Her headpopped up suddenly from the pillow and she groped for the light. For an eightyear-
old child, she was lovely with the sleep still in her eyes. She gazed atthe little white figure in faint astonishment. 

Hermes shinnied up the leg of a chair and made a leap over onto the bed wherehe could watch her. "What happened to your father?" he asked. 

She blinked at him with round eyes. "It talks—a little doll that talks! Howcute!" 

"I'm not a doll, Kitty. I'm Hermes." 

"Not a doll? Oh, goody, you're an elf then?" 

"Maybe." It was no time to bicker about a question that had no satisfactoryanswer. But his heart warmed toward the girl. She wasn't drunk, yet she could 


still believe in his existence. "I don't know just what I am, but I think I'mthe smallest of the gods. Where's your father?" 

Memory overwhelmed Kitty in a rush, and her brown eyes brimmed with tears.
"He's in jail!" she answered through a puckered mouth. "A nasty man came andtook him away, and Mamma feels awful. Just 'cause Mr. Hodges hates him." 

"Where's jail? Never mind, I'll find out." It would save time by taking theinformation directly from her head, since she knew where it was. "Now go backto sleep and I'll go find your father." 

"And bring him home to Mamma?" 

"And bring him home to Mamma." Hermes knew practically nothing of jails, butthe feeling of power was surging hotly through him. So far, everything he hadattempted had been accomplished. Kitty smiled uncertainly at him and droppedher head back on the pillow. Then the little god's sense of vibrationperception led him toward the cellar in search of certain vital bottles. 

A child's toy truck, overburdened with a large bottle and a small god, drew upin front of the dirty white building that served as jail. Hermes haddiscovered the toy in the yard and used it as a boy does a wagon to facilitatetravel. Now he stepped off, lifted the bottle, and parked the truck in a smallshrub where he could find it again. Then he began the laborious job ofhitching himself up the steps and into the building. 

It was in the early morning hours, and there were few men about, but he stayedcarefully in the shadow and moved only when their backs were turned. From hisobservation, men saw only what they expected, and the unusual attractedattention only when accompanied by some sudden sound or movement. Hermessearched one of the men's minds for the location of Brugh, then headed towardthe cell, dragging the pint bottle behind him as noiselessly as he could. 

Dr. Brugh sat on the hard iron cot with his head in his hands, somewhat afterthe fashion of Rodin's Thinker; but his face bore rather less of calmreflection. An occasional muttered invective reached the little god, whogrinned. Arlington Brugh was a man of wide attainments, and he had notneglected the development of his vocabulary. 

Hermes waited patiently until the guard was out of sight and slipped rapidlytoward the cell, mounting over the bottom brace and through the bars. Thescientist did not see him as he trotted under the bunk and found a convenient 
hiding place near the man's legs". At the moment, Brugh was considering thepleasant prospect of attaching all police to Bertha and bombarding them withneutrons until their flesh turned to anything but protoplasm. 

Hermes tapped a relatively huge leg and spoke softly. "Dr. Brugh, if you'lllook down here, please—" He held up the bottle, the cap already unscrewed. 

Brugh lowered his eyes and blinked; from the angle of his sight, only a pintbottle of whiskey, raising itself from the floor, could be seen. But he was ina mood to accept miracles without question, and he reached instinctively.
Ordinarily he wasn't a drinking man, but 

the person who won't drink on occasion has a special place reserved for him inheaven—well removed from all other saints. 


As the bottle was lowered again, Hermes reached for it and drained a fewdrops, while Brugh stared at him. "Well?" the god asked finally. 

The alcohol was leaving the scientist's stomach rapidly, as it does when nofood interferes, and making for his head; the mellowing effect Hermes hadhoped for was beginning. "That's my voice you're using," Brugh observedmildly. 

"It should be; I learned the language from you. You made me, you know." Hewaited for a second. "Well, do you believe in me now?" 

Brugh grunted. "Hermes, eh? So I wasn't imagining things back in the lab. Whathappened to you?" A suspicious look crossed his face. "Has Hodges beentinkering again?" 

As briefly as he could, the little god summarized events and explainedhimself, climbing up on the cot as he did so, and squatting down against thephysicist's side, out of sight from the door. The other chuckled sourly as hefinished. 

"So while Hodges was fooling around with amoebas and flesh, I made super-life,
only I didn't know it, eh?" There was no longer doubt in his mind, but thatmight have been due to the whiskey. The reason for more than one conversion toa new religious belief lies hidden in the mysterious soothing effect ofethanol in the form of whiskey and rum. "Well, glad to know you. What happensnow?" 

"I promised your daughter I'd take you home to the mistress." But now that hewas here, he wasn't so sure. There were more men around than he liked. "We'llhave to make plans." 

Brugh reflected thoughtfully. "That might not be so good. They'd come after meagain, and I'd have less chance to prove my innocence." 

Hermes was surprised. "You're innocent? I thought you'd murdered Hodges."
After all, it was a reasonable supposition, based on the state of thephysicist's mind the day before. "What happened?" 

"No, I haven't murdered him—yet." Brugh's smile promised unpleasant things atthe first chance. "It's still a nice idea, after this trick, though. It allstarted with the key." 

"Maybe I'd better take it from your head," Hermes decided. "That way I'll beless apt to miss things, and more sure to get things straight." 

Brugh nodded and relaxed, thinking back over the last few hours. He lifted thebottle and extracted another drink, while Hermes fol


lowed the mental pictures and memory until the story was complete in his head. 

"So that's the way it was," he grunted, finished. "Some of it doesn't makesense." 

"None of it does. All I know is that I'm here and Hodges has enough trumped-upevidence to convict me. He wanted to make the charge kidnapping, but theysuggested corpse stealing, and compromised on larceny—grand larceny, I guess." 


"I still might be able to swipe the guard's keys and attract their attention—" 

Brugh gathered his somewhat pickled senses. "No. Your biggest value to me isin your ability to get in places where a man couldn't, and find out thingswithout anyone knowing it. If I get out, I can do no more than I can here—I'mnot a detective when it comes to human reactions; just physical or chemicalpuzzles." 

There was something in that, Hermes had to concede. "Then I'm to workoutside?" 

"If you want to. You're a free agent, not bound to me. Slaves have gone out offashion, and you're hardly a robot." The physicist shook his head. "Why shouldyou help me, come to think of it?" 

"Because I want to grow up, and you might help me; and because in a sense, weboth have the same memories and thought actions— I started out with a mixtureof dog, cat, and you." He climbed off the bunk and scuttled across the floor.
"I'll give Hodges your love if I see him." 

Brugh grinned crookedly. "Do." 

Professor Hiram Hodges stirred and turned over in his bed, a sense ofsomething that wasn't as it should be troubling his mind. He grunted softlyand tried to sleep again, but the premonition still bothered him. And then herealized that there was a rustling sound going on in his study and that it wasstill too early for his housekeeper. 

He kicked off the sheet and rummaged under the bed for his slippers, drawingon the tattered old robe he'd worn for the last six years. As quietly as hecould, he slipped across to the study door, threw it open, and snapped on thelight switch, just as the rustling sound stopped. Probably his nephew up tosome trick-But the room contained neither a nephew nor any other man. Hodgesblinked, adjusting his eyes to the light, and stared at his desk. 

It had been closed when he went to bed, he was sure of that. Now it was open,
and a litter of papers was strewn across it in haphazard fashion. Someone musthave been there and disappeared in the split second it took to snap on thelights. 

Hodges moved over to the desk, stopping to pick up a few scraps of paper thathad fallen on the floor, then reached up to close the roll top. As he did so,
something small and white made a sudden frantic lunge from among the papersand hit the floor to go scuttling across the room. With startlingly quickreactions for his age, the professor spun his lank frame and scooped up thescurrying object. 

Apparently it was an animated rubber doll that lay twisting in his grasp.
Words came spilling out, though the tiny mouth did not move. "All right,
you've caught me. Do you have to squeeze me to death?" 

Some men, when faced with the impossible, go insane; others refuse to believe.
But Hodges' life had been spent in proving the impossible to be possible, andhe faced the situation calmly. A robot wouldn't have spoken that way, andobviously this wasn't flesh and blood; equally obviously, it was some form of 


life. He lifted the figure onto the desk and clamped the wire wastebasket downover it. 

"Now," he said, "what are you, where from, and what do you want?" 

Hermes devoted full energy to picturing himself as a charging lion, but theprofessor was not impressed. 

"It's a nice illusion," he granted, smiling. "Come to think of it, maybe yourother shape isn't real. Which is it—my nephew or Brugh?" 

Hermes gave up and went over the story of his creation again, point by point,
while dawn crept up over the roofs of the adjacent houses and urged him tohurry. Hodges' first incredulity turned to doubt, and doubt gave place to halfbelief. 

"So that's the way it is? All right. I'll believe you, provided you canexplain how you see without the aid of a lens to direct the light against yoursensory surface." 

Hermes had overlooked that detail, and took time off to investigate himself.
"Apparently the surface is sensitive only to light that strikes it at acertain angle," he decided. "And my mouth opening acts as a very rough lens—
something on the order of the old pinhole camera. The tar below is curved, andif I want clearer vision, I can put out a thin bubble of fairly transparentsurface material to rectify the light more fully, as a lens would. I don'tneed an iris." 

"Ummm. So Brugh decided he'd made life and wanted to make a fool of me bybringing my man to consciousness, eh? Is that why he kidnaped Anthropos?" 

Hermes grunted sourly. His mind was incapable of the sudden rages and dullhates that seemed to fill men's thoughts, but it was colored by the dislikeBrugh had cultivated for the biochemist. "It's a nice way of lying, professor,
but I know Dr. Brugh had nothing to do with your creation." 

The other grinned skeptically. "How do you know?" 

"I read his mind, where he had to reveal the truth." In proof, the little godtransferred part of the picture he had drawn from Brugh's mind to that ofHodges. 

"Hm-m-m." The biochemist lifted the wastebasket off and picked up the littlefigure. "That would account for the exposed film. Suppose you come with mewhile I get dressed and try reading my mind. You might be surprised." 

Hermes was surprised, definitely. In the professor's mind there had beencomplete conviction of Brugh's guilt, shaken somewhat now by the storytransferred by Hermes. Instead of being a cooked-up scheme to ruin his rival,
the theft of the synthetic man was unquestionably genuine. The god fixed onone detail, trying to solve the riddle. 

A note received the night before had first apprised the biochemist of thedisappearance of his pet creation and sent him to the laboratory toinvestigate. "What happened to the ransom note?" Hermes asked. 

Hodges was stuggling with man's symbol of slavery to the law of fashion, his 


necktie. "It's still in my pocket—here." He flipped it across the room, wherethe other could study the crude scrawl. The words were crude and direct: 

Perffeser, we got yur artifishul man itll cost you 1000$ to get him • back 
leave the dough in a papre sack in the garbaj can bak of yur hows noon tomorerand dont cawl the bulls. 

"Obviously the work of a well-educated man," Hodges grunted, succeedingfinally with the tie. "They always try to appear too illiterate when writingthose notes. That's why I thought Dr. Brugh wrote it to throw me off thetrail." 

"Hatred had nothing to do with it, I suppose?" 

"I don't hate Brugh, and if his conscience didn't bother him, he wouldn't hateme. We used to be fairly good friends. We could still 

be if we weren't so darned stubborn." The professor grinned as he picked upthe small figure and moved toward the kitchen. "You don't eat, do you? Well, Ido. Brugh played a dirty trick on me, but I've put over a few of them myselfto get money for my department. At Cor-ton, it's always been dog eat dog whenappropriations were under debate." 

"But did you think he'd leave his key lying around for evidence?" 

"People do funny things, and only the department heads are permitted masterkeys. It had his number." Hodges swallowed the last of a bun and washed itdown with milk. "It is funny, though. Let's see, now. Brugh left the keys onthe table; and sometime yesterday he lost one of them. Tanya was in thelaboratory in the morning, just before a date with that confounded nephew ofmine. Hm-m-m." 

"But Tanya wouldn't—" Hermes felt duty bound to protect Tanya's reputation. 

Hodges cut in on his protest. "It's plain you don't know Tanya Brugh. Forherself, she wouldn't take it. But give her a fairly handsome young man with asmooth line, and she'd sell her own father down the river. That ransom notemight be some of Johnny's pleasant work." 

"Then you think it's your nephew?" 

"I don't think anything, but it might be. He's the type. Tell you what I'lldo; you try to get some of that potassium salt—oh, yes, I knew about it longago—from your patron, and I'll help you investigate Johnny." 

"If you'll help increase my size." That question was still a major one in thegod's mind. "How'11 we find out whether young Thomas has the thing?" 

"That's your worry, son. I'll carry you there, but from then on, it's in yourhands." Hodges pocketed Hermes and turned out of the kitchen. 

Johnny Thomas looked reasonably pleasant as he stuck his head out of the door,
though the circles under his eyes were a little too prominent in the earlymorning hours. He grinned with evident self-satisfaction. 


"Ah, my dear maternal uncle. Do come in." He kicked aside a newspaper that wasscattered across the floor and flipped the cigarette ashes off the onecomfortable chair in the room, seating himself on the bed. "What can I do foryou this morning?" 

Hodges coughed to cover the noise of Hermes slipping across the room to a darkplace under the table. With that attended to, he faced his nephew. "You knowAnthropos—that synthetic man I grew in a culture bath? Somebody stole him lastnight, tank and all, and slipped a note under my door demanding a thousanddollars for his return." 

"Too bad. But surely, uncle, you don't think I had anything to do with it?" 

"Of course not; how could you get into the laboratory? But I thought you mighthelp me contact the man and make arrangements to pay. Of course, I'd bewilling to let you have a few dollars for your work." 

Thomas smiled, and looked across the room while apparently making up his mind.
As he looked, a cat came out from where no cat should be, gravely lifted abottle of whiskey, and drank deeply. "Excellent, my dear Thomas," the catremarked. "I suppose when you collect that grand from your uncle, we'll haveeven better drinks. Smart trick, stealing that thing." 

The cat licked its chops, sprouted wings, and turned into a fairy. "Naughty,
naughty," said the fairy. "Little boys shouldn't steal." It fluttered over toThomas' shoulder and perched there, tinkling reproachfully. 

The young man swatted at it, felt his hand pass through it, and jumped for thechair. Now the room was empty, though his eyes darted into every corner. Hisuncle coughed again. "If you're done playing, John—" he suggested. 

"Didn't you see it?" 

"See what? Oh, you mean that fly? Yes, it was a big one. But about thisbusiness I have—" 

"I think he'd make a nice meal," said a grizzly bear, materializing suddenly.
"So young and succulent." , 

A shining halo of light quivered violently. "You'd poison your system, Bruin.
Go back home." The bear obediently trotted to the window and passed throughthe glass; the halo of light struck a commanding note, and a face of wrathappeared in it. "Young man, repent of your ways and learn that your sins havefound you out. Time is but short on this mortal sphere, and the bad that we domust follow us through all eternity. Repent, for the hour has come!" 

Thomas quivered down onto the bed again, wiping his forehead. The idea ofgetting nervous at a time like this! The things couldn't be real. He turnedback to Hodges, who was waiting patiently. "Just 

a little nervous this morning; not used to getting up so early. Now, as wewere saying—" 

Click! The sound was in the young man's head, and a soft purring voicefollowed it. "I know a secret, I know a secret, and I'm going to tell! Johnny,
old kid, tell the old fossil what a smart guy you are, putting over a tricklike that on him. Go ahead and tell!" There was a hot flicker of pain that 


stabbed up the backbone, then ran around the ribs and began doing something onthe order of a toe dance in Thomas' stomach. 

He gritted his teeth and groaned. Hodges became all solicitation. "Somethingyou ate?" asked the professor. "Just lie down on the bed and relax." 

There was a whole den of rattlesnakes curled up on the bed, making clickingsounds that seemed to say: "Come ahead, young fellow, it's breakfast time andwe're hungry!" Thomas had no desire to relax among even imaginary snakes. 

"Gulp—ughl" he said, and an angel unscrewed its head from the light socket anddropped near him. "Gulp—ouch!" The angel sprouted horns and tail, and carrieda red-hot fork that felt most unpleasant when rubbed tenderly along his shins. 

Click! Again the voice was in his head. "Remember that girl at Casey's? Well,
when she committed suicide, it wasn't so nice. But that was gas, and shedidn't feel any pains. When you commit suicide—" 

"I won't commit suicide!" The bellow was involuntary, forced out just as thelittle devil decided his fork would feel worse in the stomach. "Take 'em 
away!" 

Hodges clucked sympathetically. "Dear, dear! Do you have a dizzy feeling,
Johnny?" 

Johnny did, just as the words were out. His head gave an unpleasant twang andleaped from his body, then went whirling around the room. A gnome picked itup, whittled the neck quickly to a point, and drew a whip. "Hi, fellows!"
called the gnome. "Come, see the top I made." He drew the whip smartly acrossThomas' head and sent it spinning as a horde of other little hobgoblins jumpedout of odd places to watch. That was a little too much for Johnny, with theaddition of two worms that were eating his eyes. 

Hodges chuckled. "All right, Hermes, let him alone. The boy's fainted. It's apity I couldn't see the things you were forcing on his mind. Must have beenright interesting." 

Hermes came out of the corner, smiling. "They were very nice. I 

think he'll talk when he comes to. He persuaded Tanya to get him the key bypretending an interest in cyclotrons—said he was writing a story. She wouldn'thave done it, except that the key was lying so temptingly within reach. Heworked on her innocence." 

"Okay, Hermes," Hodges grunted. "She's washed whiter than snow, if you want itthat way. Better get back in my pocket; Johnny's coming around again." 

It was noon when Hodges came to the cell where Brugh sat. The biochemistdropped the little god on the floor and grinned. "You're free now, Arlington,"
he informed the other. "Sorry I got you in here, but I've tried to make up forthat." 

Brugh looked up at the professor's voice, and his face wasn't pretty.
"Arrughh!" he said. 

The smile on Hodges' face remained unchanged. "I expected that. But Hermeshere can tell you I honestly thought you'd stolen Anthropos. We just finished 


putting him back where he belongs, and seeing that young nephew of mine leavetown. If you'll avoid committing homicide on me, the warden will unlock thedoor." 

"What about my reputation?" 

"Quite untouched," Hermes assured him. "Professor Hodges succeeded in keepingeverything hushed up, and it's Sunday, so your absence from the universitywon't mean anything." 

The physicist came out of the cell, and his shoulders lifted with the touch offreedom. The scowl on his face was gone, but uncertainty still remained in thelook he gave Hodges. 

The biochemist put out a hand. "I've been thinking you might help me onAnthropos," he said. "You know, Arlington, we might make something out of thatyet if we worked together." 

Brugh grinned suddenly. "We might at that, Hiram. Come on home to lunch, andwe'll talk it over while Hermes tells me what happened." 

Hermes squirmed as a hand lifted him back into the pocket. "How1 about helpingme grow up?" 

The two men were busy discussing other things. The height increase would haveto wait. 

Hermes sat on the edge of Anthropos' tank, kicking his small legs against itand thinking of the last two days. To live in the same house, breathe the sameair as Tanya Brugh! He dug up another sigh of ecstasy and followed it with oneof despair. 

For Tanya regarded him as some new form of bug, to be tolerated since he wasuseful, but not to be liked—an attitude shared by her mother. Dr. Brugh hadthe greatest respect for the little god, and Kitty was fond of him. Of themall, Kitty treated him best, and Tanya worst. 

Of course, that was due to his height. John Thomas was gone, but there werestill Will Young and her other escorts, none less than six feet in height. AndHermes was far from being tall. The consultation, held with Brugh and Hodges,
had resulted in nothing; when all was said and done, there was no hope forhim. 

He sighed again, and Dixon, who was helping Hodges and Brugh with Anthropos,
noticed him. "What's the matter, Hermes?" he asked good-naturedly. "Alcoholdrying out again? Why not try carbon tetrachloride this time?" 

Hermes shook his head. "I don't need anything. The alcohol seems to havepermanently combined with the tar—something like water and a crystal, to forma hydrate. I'm softened thoroughly for all time." 

Hodges looked up and then turned back to the tank where the synthetic man lay,
and Hermes turned his attention to it. As far as outward appearance went,
Anthropos was nearly perfect, and a tinge of envy filled the little god'sthoughts. 


Dixon wiped his forehead. "I give up. When three separate divisions ofchemistry can't bring life to him, there's no hope. Hodges, your man is doomedto failure." 

"He's breathing, though," the biochemist muttered. "Ever since we injected thepotassium into him and put it in his nutritive bath, he's been living, but notconscious. See, his heartbeat is as regular as clockwork." He indicated themeter that flickered regularly on the tank. 

Brugh refused to look. "To anyone but a biochemist," he informed the room,
"the answer would be obvious. Hiram's created life, yes; but he can't give ita good brain. That's too complex for his electric cell formation determiner.
What Anthropos needs is a new brain." 

"I suppose you'd like to stick his head full of that gummy tar of yours?" Oldhabit made the words tart, though good fellowship had been restored betweenthem. 

"Why not?" It was Hermes' voice this time. Inspiration had flashed suddenlythrough his small mind, opening a mighty vista of marvels to his imagination.
"Why wouldn't that solve it?" 

"I'll bite. Why?" Dixon grinned, sweat rolling from his chubby face. "That'sthe best suggestion we've had today." 

"But he wouldn't be real life then, not organic life. Besides, we can't besure that another batch of the tar would live—it might be an accident thatHermes contained just the right ingredients. The rest of the tar probablyisn't the same." 

Hermes wriggled in his excitement. "Organic life is merely a chemicoelectricalreaction, with radioactivity thrown in; and I'm all of that. What differencedoes it make?" He stretched out a small leg. "Dr. Brugh, will you examine myfeet?" 

With a puzzled frown, Brugh complied. "They're wearing out," he said. "Therubber is almost paper-thin. You'll need a new body soon, Hermes." 

"Precisely. Thaf s what I'm talking about. Why couldn't I be put in Anthropos'brainpan?" 

Hodges let out a startled wail that died out and left his mouth hanging open.
Finally he remembered to close it. "I wonder—" he muttered. "Would it work?" 

Dixon demurred. "It'd be a delicate operation, removing the useless higherpart of the brain and leaving the essential vital areas that control the heartand organs. Besides, could Hermes control the nerves?" 

"Why not? He can control your nerves at a distance if he tries hard enough.
But the operation would need a doctor's skill." 

Hermes had that all figured out by now, and he voiced his plan while theothers listened carefully. Hodges finally nodded. "It might work, son, andAnthropos isn't much good as is. I promised to help you grow up, and if youcan use this body, it's yours. The university doesn't seem to value it much." 


Later, the borrowed dissecting equipment from the zoology department was inreadiness and the men stood looking on as Hermes prepared for his work. Hepaused at the brink of the tank. "You know what you're to do?" 

"We do. After you open it, we'll lower your temperature until you harden up tounconsciousness, remove your casing, pack you in the brainpan, so there's nodanger of nerve pressure, and cover the opening with the removed section ofthe skull." 

"Right In that nutrient fluid, it should heal completely in a few hours."
Hermes dropped into the tank and was immersed in the liquid; his ability towork in any medium facilitated the operation. 

And his sense of perception made him capable of performing the work withalmost uncanny skill. As the others watched, he cut briskly around the skull,
removed a section, and went into the brain, analyz


ing it almost cell by cell and suturing, cutting, and scraping away theuseless tissue. 

Blood oozed out slowly, but the liquid's restorative power began functioning,
healing the soft nerve tissue almost as rapidly as it was cut. Hermes noddedapproval and continued until only the vital centers that functioned properlywere left. Then he indicated that he was finished and Hodges pulled him out. 

The dry ice was numbing as they,packed it around him, and his thoughts beganmoving more sluggishly. But as consciousness left him, a heady exultation wassinging its song through every atom of his being. He would be tall andhandsome, and Tanya would love him. 

Consciousness faded as Hodges began the relatively simple job of removing hiscasing and inserting him into the vacancy in Anthropos' head. 

Darkness. That was the first thought Hermes felt on regaining consciousness.
He was in a cave with no entrance, and light could not stream through. Aroundhim was a warm shell that held him away from direct contact with the world. Hestarted to struggle against it, and the uneasy sense of closeness increased. 

Then he remembered he was in the head of the synthetic man. He must open hiseyes and look out. But his eyes refused to open. Again he concentrated, andnothing seemed to happen. 

Brugh's voice, muffled as from a great distance, reached him. "Well, he'sawake. His big toe twitched then." There was another sensation, the feeling offaint current pouring in from one of the nerve endings, and Hermes realizedthat must be his ears sending their message to his brain. 

This time he tried to talk, and Hodges spoke. "That was his leg moving. Iwonder if he can control his body." Hermes was learning; the sound and nervemessages co-ordinated this time. Learning to use Anthropos' auditory systemwould not be too difficult. 

But he was having trouble. He had tried to open his eyes, and a toe hadtwitched; an effort to use his tongue resulted in a leg moving. There was onlyone thing to do, and that was to try everything until the desired result was 


obtained. 

It was several minutes later when Dixon's voice registered on his nerves:
"See, his eyes are open. Can you see, Hermes—or Anthropos?" 

Hermes couldn't. There was a wild chaos of sensation pouring in through theoptic nerve, which must be the effect of light, but it made little sense tohim. He concentrated on one part that seemed to register less strongly, andsucceeded in making out the distorted figure of a man. It was enough to beginwith, but learning to use his eyes took more time than the ears had. 

He gave up trying to speak and sent his thought out directly to Brugh. "Liftme out and move me around, so that I can study which sensations are related tomy various parts." 

Brugh obeyed promptly with the help of the others, enthusiasm running high.
Hermes had the entire job of learning to make his body behave before him, buthe brought a highly developed mind to bear on the problem. Bit by bit, thesensation sent up by the nerves registered on his brain, was cataloged andanalyzed, and became a familiar thing to him. He tried touching a table withhis finger, and made it in two attempts. 

"You'll be better than any man when we're done with you," Hodges gloated. "IfI'd brought consciousness into Anthropos, I'd still have had to educate him asa child is taught. You can leam by yourself." 

Hermes was learning to talk again, in the clumsy system of breathing, throatcontraction, and oral adaptation that produces human words. He tried it now.
"Let me walk alone." 

Another half hour saw a stalwart young figure striding about the laboratory,
examining this and that, trying out implements, using his body in every waythat he could. It answered his commands with a smooth coordination that 
pleased them all. 

Brugh was elated. "With a brain like that, Hermes, and the body you have now,
we could make the world's greatest physical chemist out of you. A little wirepulling and a few tricks, examinations, and things, and you'd have your degreein no time. I could use you here."' 

"He'd be a wonderful biochemist," Hodges cut in. "Think of what that sense ofperception would mean to us in trying to determine the effects of drugs on anorganism." 

Dixon added his opinion. "As an organic chemist, think what it would mean inanalyzing and synthesizing new compounds. But why not all three? What wereally need is someone to co-ordinate the various fields, and Hermes isideal." He held out an old pair of trou-icrs, acid-stained, but whole, andHermes began climbing into them. That was a complication he hadn't thought of,
and one which was 

not entirely pleasant. He saw no reason to conceal the new body of which hewas so proud. 

Brugh had accepted Dixon's idea. "How about getting yourself added to ourstaff in a few years? It would mean a lot to science, and the board ofdirectors couldn't refuse the appointment if you'd force a little thought into 


their empty heads." 

Hermes had been considering it, and the prospect appealed to him. But Tanyawouldn't like it, probably. He'd have to see her before he could make anydecisions. Of course, now that he was a real man instead of a rubber statue,
she couldn't refuse him. 

There was an interruption from the door, a small child's voice. "Daddy, Daddy,
are you there?" The door swung open and Kitty Brugh came tripping in. 

"Kitty,-you don't belong here." Brugh faced her with a scowl of annoyance.
"I'm busy." 

"But Mamma sent me." Her voice was plaintive. "She gave me this telegram tobring to you." 

Brugh took it and read it through, his face lighting up. "Great luck," he toldHermes, handing it over. "I never thought Tanya would choose so well." 

The telegram was as simple as most telegrams are: 

HAVE MARRIED WILL YOUNG AND ON HONEYMOON IN MILLSBURG STOP EVER SO HAPPY STOP 
LOVE 

TANYA 

And with it, the newly created man's hopes went flying out into nothingness. 

But somehow he felt much better than he should. He handed it back to Brugh,
and the sigh he achieved was halfhearted. Kitty's eyes noticed him for thefirst time. 

She squeaked delightedly. "Oh, what a pretty man! What's your name?" 

Hermes' heart went out to her. He stooped and picked her up in his strongyoung arms, stroking her hair. "I'm the little god, Kitty. I'm your Hermes ina new body. Do you like it?" 

She snuggled up. "Um-hmm. It's nice." There was no surprise for her inanything Hermes might do. He turned back to the three men then. 

"Dr. Brugh, I've decided to accept your offer. I'd like nothing better thanworking with all of you here at Corton." 

"Splendid, my boy. Splendid. Eh, Hiram?" 

They crowded around him, shaking his hand, and he thoroughly enjoyed theflattery of their respect. But most of his thoughts were centered on Kitty.
After all, she was the only woman—or girl—who had treated him with anyconsideration, and her little mind was open and honest. She'd make a wonderfulwoman in ten more years. 

Ten more years; and he wasn't so very old himself. There might be hope thereyet. 

This is another story I hadn't read from its publication until I started doingthis book. And in this case, I enjoyed a chance to go over it again, and I 


found it something of an old friend. 

But quite a bit of it surprised me. I couldn't write that story now. I'veadded some skills since then, and I've learned a great deal more about thebusiness of plotting and writing. But that knowledge would get sadly in theway of shaping up such a story as this. There is too much casual assumption ofone thing after another, and Hermes seems to move about far too easily, justto suit the needs of the writer. 

There's something to be said for naivete" and young enthusiasm. Maybe one ofthe troubles with us older writers is that we know too much of what can't be 
done, and we never try the stories that we often should write. Skill has itsplace, as has discipline; but the craft of writing can be approached throughmany doors. 

Still, the only thing in it for which I apologize is the cliche* picture ofthe cat. I should have known better. I've had quite a few cats as my friends,
and I've found them to be anything but cold and calculating in the affectionthey can give to a human. 

Anyhow, while I liked making another sale and getting a good check for it, Iwasn't fully satisfied, because I wanted to write fantasy for Unknown far morethan science fiction for Astounding. So I Started in almost at once to tryfantasy again. This was something called "Fade-Out," dealing with a ratherdull young man who tried to commit some crime by astral projection. Somehow hemanaged to break the silver cord that bound him to his body, and naturally hethen slowly faded out. It was short, which was its only virtue, running toabout 3,800 words. 

Campbell bounced it promptly. But the story didn't quite achieve the oblivionit deserved. At that time, several of the fan magazines being put out by thereaders were trying to use some fiction as well 

as the articles they usually printed. Harry Warner, one of the leading fans—ashe still is—wrote to ask if I had any rejects he could have. So I sent him"Fade-Out," which he wisely shortened before printing. So somewhere in someattic, there may still be a version of it. I don't have one, nor want one. ButI wish I'd sent him "Hands of the Gods." Ah, well. It was the only time Isubmitted a story to a fan magazine, incidentally. 

Campbell's letter of rejection had a number of comments about the fact that Iwas trying to write stories that weren't my type. I was counting too much ongimmicks and trick plots, and should go back to doing characters. (He was veryright, though it took me quite a while to learn the lesson.) He also pointedout that he didn't expect to see straight action stories from me; that wasn'tmy chief ability. There were plenty of other writers who did such things, andwhat he needed from me was what made me unique. 

So I couldn't write an action scene or a good fight scene, eh? That boggled.
Who, I asked myself, had been writing him all the letters explaining whyartists were drawing the use of a knife all wrong? Who had seen more roughstuff in life? Certainly not most of those who were writing about it, to judgeby their idea that a fist to the chin was more effective than the side of thehand to the throat. 

At that time, I'd been working up an idea for a conflict in getting rocketsout to space. That would be a good chance to show Campbell how wrong he was, I 


decided. So I immediately recast it to include some good action sequences. Andfired with indignation, I wrote 15,000 words, entitled "The Stars Look Down." 

6. The Stars Look Down 
(by Lester del Key] I 

Erin Morse came down the steps slowly without looking back, and his longfingers brushed through the gray hair that had been brown when he firstentered the building. Four years is a long time to wait when a man has work todo and the stars look down every night, re


minding him of his dreams. There were new lines in his face and littlewrinkles had etched themselves around his dark eyes. But even four years hadbeen too few to change his erect carriage or press down his wide shoulders. Atsixty, he could still move with the lithe grace of a boy. 

The heavy gate opened as he neared it and he stepped out with a slow, evenpace. He passed the big three-wheeled car parked there, then stopped andbreathed deeply, letting his eyes roam over the green woods and plowed fieldsand take in the blue sweep of the horizon. Only the old can draw fullsweetness from freedom, though the young may cry loudest for it. The firstheady taste of it over, he turned his back on the prison and headed down theroad. 

There was a bugling from the car behind him, but he was barely conscious ofit; it was only when it drove up beside him and stopped that he noticed. Aheavily built man stuck out a face shaped like a bulldog's and yelled. 

"Hey, Erin! Don't tell me you're blind as well as crazy?" 

Morse swung his head and a momentary flash of surprise and annoyance crossedhis face before he stepped over to the car. "You would be here, of course,
Stewart." 

"Sure. I knew your men wouldn't. Hop in and I'll ride you over to Hampton." AtErin's hesitation, he gestured impatiently. "I'm not going to kidnap you, ifthat's what you think. Federal laws still mean something to me, you know." 

"I wouldn't know." Erin climbed in and the motor behind purred softly, itssound indicating a full atomic generator instead of the usual steam plant. "Isuppose the warden kept you well informed of my actions." 

The other chuckled. "He did; money has its uses when you know where to put it.
I found out you weren't letting your men visit or write to you, and that'sabout all. Afraid I'd find out what was in the letters?" 

"Precisely. And the boys could use the time better for work than uselessvisits to me. Thanks, I have tobacco." But at Stewart's impatient gesture, heput the "makings" back and accepted a cigarette. "It isn't poisoned, Isuppose?" 

"Nor loaded." 

Erin let a half smile run over his lips and relaxed on the seat, watching theroad flash by and letting his mind run over other times with Stewart. Probablythe other was doing the same, since the silence was mutual. They had all too 


many common memories. Forty years of them, from the time they had first met atthe institute as 

roommates, both filled with a hunger for knowledge that would let them crossspace to other worlds. 

Erin, from a family that traced itself back almost to Adam, and with a fortuneequally old, had placed his faith in the newly commercialized atomic power.
Gregory Stewart, who came from the wrong side of the tracks, where a full mealwas a luxury, was more conservative; new and better explosives were hisspecialty. The fact that they were both aiming at the same goal made littledifference in their arguments. Though they stuck together from stubbornness,
black eyes flourished. 

Then, to complicate matters further, Mara Devlin entered their lives to chooseErin after two years of indecision and to die while giving birth to his son.
Erin took the boy and a few workers out to a small island off the coast andbegan soaking his fortune into workshops where he could train men in rocketryand gain some protection from Stewart's thugs. 

Gregory Stewart had prospered with his explosives during the war of 1958, andwas piling up fortune on fortune. Little by little, the key industries of thecountry were coming under his control, along with the toughest gangs ofgunmen. When he could, he bought an island lying off the coast, a few milesfrom Erin's, stocked it with the best brains he could buy, and began his ownresearch. The old feud settled down to a dull but constant series of defeats 
and partial victories that gained nothing for either. 

Erin came to the crowning stroke of Stewart's offensive, grimaced, and tossedthe cigarette away. "I forgot to thank you for railroading me up on that five-
year sentence, Greg," he said quietly. "I suppose you were responsible for thefailure of the blast that killed my son, 

as well." 

Stewart looked at him in surprise which seemed genuine. "The failure was noneof my doing, Erin. Anyway, you had no business sending the boy up on the crazyexperimental model; any fool should have known he couldn't handle it. Maybe mylegal staff framed things a little, but it was manslaughter. I could havewrung your neck when I heard Mara's son was dead, instead of letting you offlightly with five years—less one for good behavior." 

"I didn't send him up." Erin's soft voice contrasted oddly with Stewart'sbellow. "He slipped out one night on his own, against my orders. If the wholecase hadn't been fixed with your money, I could have proved that at the trial.
As it was, I couldn't get a decent hearing." 

"All right, then, I framed you. But you've hit back at me without trying to,
though you probably don't know it yet." He brushed Erin's protest asidequickly. "Never mind, you'll see what I mean soon enough. I didn't meet you tohash over past grievances." 

"I wondered why you came to see me out." 

They swung off the main highway into a smaller road where the speed limit wasonly sixty and went flashing past the other cars headed for Hampton. Stewartgunned the car savagely, unmindful of the curves. "We're almost at the wharf," 


he pointed out needlessly, "so I'll make it short and sweet. I'm aboutfinished with plans for a rocket that will work—a few more months should dothe trick—and I don't want competition now. In plain words, Erin, drop it orall rules are off between us." 

"Haven't they been?" Erin asked. 

"Only partly. Forget your crazy ion-blast idea, and I'll reserve a berth foryou on my ship; keep on bucking me and I'll ruin you. Well?" 

"No, Greg." 

Stewart grunted and shrugged. "I was afraid you'd be a fool. We've alwayswanted the same things, and you've either had them to begin with or gottenthem from under my nose. But this time it's not going to be that way. I'mdeclaring war. And for your information, my patents go through in a few days,
so you'll have to figure on getting along without that steering assembly youworked out." 

Erin gave no sign he had heard as the car came to a stop at the small wharf.
"Thanks for picking me up," he said with grave courtesy. Stewart answered witha curt nod and swung the car around on its front wheels. Erin turned to a boywhose boat was tied up nearby. "How much to ferry me out to Kroll Island?" 

"Two bucks." The boy looked up, and changed his smile quickly.. "You one ofthem crazy guys who's been playing with skyrockets? Five bucks, I meant." 

Erin grimaced slightly but held out the money. 

There was nobody waiting to greet him on the island, nor had he expectedanyone. He fed the right combination into the alarm system to keep it quietand set off up the rough wooden walk toward the buildings that huddledtogether a few hundred yards from the dock. The warehouses, he noticed, neededa new coat of paint, and 

the dock would require repairs if the tramp freighter were to use it muchlonger. 

There was a smell of smoke in the air, tangy and resinous at first, butgrowing stronger as he moved away from the ocean's crisp counteracting odor.
As he passed the big machine shop, a stronger whiff of it reached him,
unpleasant now. There was a thin wisp of smoke going up behind it, the faintgray of an almost exhausted fire. The men must be getting careless, burningtheir rubbish so close to the buildings. He cut around the corner and stopped. 

The south wall of the laboratory was a black, charred scar, dripping danklyfrom a hose that was playing on it. Where the office building had stood, gauntsteel girders rose from a pile of smoking ashes and'half-burned boards, withtwo blistered filing cabinets poking up like ghosts at a wake. 

The three men standing by added nothing to the cheerfulness of the scene. Erinshivered slightly before advancing toward them. It was a foreboding omen forhis homecoming, and for a moment the primitive fears mastered him. The littlepain that had been scratching at his heart came back again, stronger thistime. 


Doug Wratten turned off the hose and shook a small arm at the sandy-hairedyoung husky beside him. "All right," he yelled in a piping falsetto, "matter'sparticular and energy's discrete. But you chemists try and convince an atomicgenerator that it's dealing with building-block atoms instead of wave-motion." 

Jimmy Shaw's homely, pleasant face still studied the smoldering ashes. "Rollwave-motion into a ball and give it valence, redhead," he suggested. "Do thatand I'll send Stewart a sample—it might make a better bomb than the egg helaid on us. How about it, Dad?" 

"Maybe. Anyhow, you kids drop the argument until you're through being mad atStewart," the foreman ordered. "You'll carry your tempers over against eachother." Tom Shaw was even more grizzled and stooped than Erin remembered, andhis lanky frame seemed to have grown thinner. 

"All right," he decided in his twangy, down-East voice. "I guess it's over, sowe. . . Hey, it's Erin!" 

He caught at Jimmy's arm and pulled him around, heading toward Erin with aloose-jointed trot. Doug forgot his arguments and moved his underdone figureon the double after them, shouting at the top of his thin voice. Erin foundhis arm aching and his ears ringing from their questions. 

He broke free for a second and smiled. "All right, I got a year off, I 

sneaked in, I'm glad to be back, and you've done a good job, I gather. Whereare Hank and Dutch?" 

"Over in the machine shop, I guess. Haven't seen them since the fire was undercontrol." Shaw jerked a long arm at the remains. "Had a little trouble, yousee." 

"I saw. Stewart's men?" 

"Mm-hm. Came over in a plane and dropped an incendiary. Sort of ruined theoffice, but no real damage to the laboratory. If those filing cabinets are asgood as they claimed, it didn't hurt our records." 

Doug grinned beatifically. "Hurt their plane more. Tom here had one of ourtest models sent up for it, and the rocket striking against the propellerspoiled their plans." He gestured out toward the ocean. "They're drinkingNeptune's health in hell right now." 

"Bloodthirsty little physicist, isn't he?" Jimmy asked the air. "Hey, Kung,
the boss is back. Better go tell the others." 

The Chinese cook came hobbling up, jerking his bad leg over the ground andswearing at it as it slowed him down. "Kung, him see boss fella allee sametime more quick long time," he intoned in the weird mixture of pidgin, bechede-
mer, and perverted English that was his private property. "Very good, himcome back. Mebbeso make suppee chop-chop same time night." 

He gravely shook hands with himself before Erin, his smile saying more thanthe garbled English he insisted on using, then went hobbling off toward themachine shop. Shaw turned to the two young men. 


"All right, you kids, get along. I've got business with Erin." As they left,
his face lengthened. "I'm glad you're back, boss. Things haven't been lookingany too good. Stewart's getting more active. Oh, the fire didn't do us anypermanent damage, but we've been having trouble getting our supplies freightedin—had to buy an old tramp freighter when Stewart took over the regular one—
and it looks like, war brewing all along the line." 

"I know it. Stewart brought me back and told me he was gunning for us." Erindropped back onto a rock, realizing suddenly that he was tired; and he'd haveto see a doctor about his heart—sometime. "And he's stolen our steering unit,
or thinks he's getting it patented, at least." 

"Hmmm. He can't have it; it's the only practical solution to the controlssystem there is. Erin, we'll . . . Skip it, here come Dutch •nd Hank." 

But a sudden whistle from the rocket test tower cut in, indicating 

a test. The structural engineer and machinist swung sharply, and Doug andJimmy popped out of the laboratory at a run. Shaw grabbed at Erin. 

"Come on," he urged. "This is the biggest test yet, I hope. Good thing you'rehere to see it." Even Kung was hobbling toward the 

tower. 

Erin followed, puzzling over who could have set off the whistle; he knew of noone not accounted for, yet a man had to be in the tower. Evidently there wasan addition to the force, of whom he knew nothing. They reached the guardrailaround the tower, and the whistle tooted again, three times in warning. 

"Where is the rocket?" Erin yelled over the whistle. There was nothing on thetakeoff cradle. 

"Left two days ago; this is the return. Jack's been nursing it without sleep—
wouldn't let anyone else have it," Shaw answered hurriedly. "Only took timeoff to send another up for the bomber." 

Following their eyes, Erin finally located a tiny point of light that grew ashe watched. From the point in the sky where it was, a thin shrilling reachedtheir ears. A few seconds later, he made out the stubby shape of a ten-footmodel, its tubes belching out blue flame in a long, tight jet. With a speedthat made it difficult to follow, it shot over their heads at a flat angle,
heading over the ocean, while its speed dropped. A rolling turn pointed itback over their heads, lower this time, and the ion-blast could be seen as atight, unwavering 

track behind it. 

Then it reversed again and came over the tower, slowed almost to a stop,
turned up to vertical with a long blast from its steering tubes, and settledslowly into the space between the guide rails. It slid down with a wheeze,
sneezed faintly, and decided to stop peacefully. Erin felt a tingle run up hisback at his first sight of a completely successful radio-controlled flight 

The others were yelling crazily. Dutch Bauer, the fat structural engineer, wasdancing with Hank Vlcek, his bald pate shining red with excitement. "Itworked, it worked," they were chanting. 


Shaw grunted. "Luck," he said sourly, but his face belied the words. "Jack hadno business sending our first model with the new helix on such a flight.
Wonder the darn fool didn't lose it in space." 

Erin's eyes were focused on the young man coming from the pit of the tower.
There was something oddly familiar about those wide shoulders and the mane ofblack hair that hugged his head. As the boy came nearer, the impression washeightened by the serious 

brown eyes, now red from lack of sleep, that were slightly too deep in theround face. 

The boy scanned the group and moved directly toward Morse, a littlehesitantly. "Well," he asked, "ho\y did you like the test—Mr. Morse, I think?
Notice how the new helix holds the jets steady?" 

Erin nodded slowly. So this was what Stewart had meant by his Statement thathe had been hit twice as hard. "You resemble your father, Jack Stewart!" 

Jack shifted on his feet, then decided there was no disapproval on Erin'sface, and grinned. He held out a small package. "Then I'll give you this, sir.
It's a reel of exposed film, shot from the rocket, and it should show theother side of the Moon!" 

Ill 

The secretary glided into the richly appointed room, sniffing at the pungentodor given off by the dirty old pipe in Stewart's mouth. "Mr. Russell's here,
sir," she announced, wondering whether his scowl was indicative of indigestionor directed at some particular person. 

"Send him in, then." He bit at the stem of the pipe without looking at her,
and she breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't indigestion, which was the onlything that made him roar at the office force; at other times he was fair andjust with them, if not given to kindliness. Looking at Russell as she sent himin, she guessed the object of his anger. 

"Well?" Stewart asked curtly as his right-hand man entered. 

"Now look," Russell began, "I admit I sent the plane over before you said, butwas it my fault if they brought it down? How was I to know they had a torpedothey could control in the air?" 

"Not torpedo, you fool; it was a rocket. And that's bad news, in itself, sinceit means they're making progress. But we'll skip that. lf gave orders you wereto wait until Morse refused my offer, and you didn't. Furthermore, I told youto send it over at night, when they'd be unprepared, and drop it on the towerand laboratory, not on the office. I'm not trying to burn people to death." 

"But the pilot didn't want—" 

"You mean you had your own little ideas." He tossed the pipe into a tray andbegan picking at his fingernails. "Next time I give you orders, Russell, Iexpect them to be followed. Understand? You'd better. Now get down toWashington and see what you can do about rushing our patent on the unifiedcontrol; Erin Morse didn't look 


surprised or bothered enough to suit me. He's holding something, and I don'twant it to show up as an ace. Okay, beat it." 

Russell looked up in surprise, and made tracks toward the door. Either the oldman was feeling unusually good, or he was worried. That had been easier thanhe expected. 

Back on Kroll Island, Erin Morse settled back in his chair in the corner ofthe workshop that served as a temporary office. "Read this," he said, handingover a dog-eared magazine with a harshly colored cover to Shaw. "It's a copyof Interplanetary Tales, one of the two issues they printed. It's not wellknown, but it's still classed as literature. Page 108, where it's marked inred." 

Shaw looked at him curiously, and reached for the magazine. He began readingin his overly precise manner, the exact opposite of his usual slow speech.
"Jerry threw the stick over to the right, and the Betsy veered sharply,
jarring his teeth. The controls were the newest type, arranged to be handledby one stick. Below the steering rod was a circular disk, and banked around itwas a circle of pistons that varied the steering jet blasts according to theamount they were depressed. Moving the stick caused the disk to press againstthose pistons which would turn the ship in that direction, slowly with alittle movement, sharply if it were depressed the limit." 

He looked at Erin. "But that's a fair description of the system we use." 

"Exactly. Do you remember whether the submarine periscope was patented?" 

"Why, Jules Verne . . . Hmmm. Anything described reasonably accurately inliterature can't be given a basic patent." Shaw thought it over slowly. "Itake it we mail this to the attorneys and get Stew-art's claim voided. Sothat's why you didn't try for a patent on it?" 

"Naturally." 

Morse picked up the records that had been saved from the fire by insulatedcabinets, and ran back over the last few years' work. They showed the usualhuge expenditures and small progress. Rockets aren't built on a shoestring norin the backyard during the idle hours of a boy scientist. "Total cost, five-
foot experimental radio-controlled rocket, $13,843.51," read one item. Fromanother book he found that it had crashed into the sea on its first flight andbeen destroyed. 

But there were advances. The third model had succeeded, though the flickering,
erratic blast had made control difficult. A new lightweight converter had beentested successfully, throwing out power from the atoms with only a .002percent heat loss. An ion-release had 

been discovered by General Electratomic Company that afforded a more thanample supply of ions, and Shaw had secured rights for its use. Toward the lastthere were outlays for some new helix to control the ion-blast on a tight lineunder constant force and a new alloy for the chamber. Those had always beenthe problems. 

"Good work," Erin Morse nodded. "This last model, I gather, is the one Jackused to reach the Moon." Under it he penciled the word "success" in bright 


green. "The boys were quite excited over those pictures, even if they did shownothing spectacular. I'm glad he sent it." 

"So am I. They need encouragement." Shaw kicked aside a broken bearing andmoved his chair back against the wall. "I suppose you're wondering why Jack'sworking with us. I didn't know how you'd take it." 

"I'm reserving my opinion for the facts." It had been a shock, seeing the boythere, but he had covered up as best he could and waited until information wasvouchsafed. 

Shaw began awkwardly, not sure yet whether Erin approved or not. "Jack camehere about a year ago and—well, he simply told us he was looking for work. Hada blowup with his father over your being sent up for the accident, it seems,
back then. Anyway, they'd been quarreling before because Jack wanted tospecialize in atomics, and the old man wanted him to carry on with explosives. 

"So Jack left home, took his degree with money his mother had left him, andcame here. He's good, too, though I wouldn't tell him so. That new helixcontrol is his work, and he's fixed up the ion-release so as to give optimumresults. Since Doug and you studied atomics, they've made big progress, Ireckon, and we needed someone with his training." 

"Any experimental work needs new blood," Erin agreed. "So Greg succeeded inteaching his son that Mars was the last frontier, but no^t how to reach it." 

"Seems that way. Anyway, his father's kicking up a worse fuss with us since hecame. Somehow, there's a leak, and I can't locate the source —Jack has beenwatched, and he's not doing it. But Stewart's getting too much information onwhat we're doing—like that control. He managed to cut off freighter serviceand choke our source of supplies until I bought up a tramp and hired a no-goodcaptain." 

"He'll hit harder when we get his patent application killed. By the way, arethe plans for that air-renewer of Jimmy's still around?" 

Shaw nodded. "Sure, I guess so. He never found out what was 

wrong with it, though, so we've been planning on carrying oxygen flasks withus." Based on the idea of photosynthesis, the air-renewer had been designed tobreak down the carbon dioxide waste product of breathing by turning it intosugar and free oxygen, as a plant does, and permit the same air being usedover and over. 

"All it needs is saturated air around the catalyst." Erin had fished around inthe papers from the burned office until he had the plans. Now he spread thembefore Shaw and indicated the changes. "A spray of water here, and remove thehumidity afterward. Took me three years up there, working when I could, tofigure out that fault, but it's ready for the patent attorneys now. Dutch candraw up the plans in the morning." 

They stuck the papers and books away and passed out of the building into thenight. "Stars look right good," Shaw observed. "Mars seems to be waiting untilwe can get there." 

"That shouldn't be long now, with the rocket blast finally under control.
What's that?" Erin pointed toward a sharp streak of light that rose suddenly 


over the horizon and arced up rapidly. As they watched, it straightened tovertical and went streaking up on greased wings until it faded into theheights beyond vision. 

"Looks like Stewart's made a successful model." A faint, high whine reachedtheir ears now. "If he has, we will have a fight on our hands." 

Erin nodded. "Start the boys on the big rocket in the morning; we can't stopfor more experimental work now." 

The big electric hammer came down with a monotonous thud and clank, jarringagainst the eardrums in its endless hunger for new material to work on. HankVlcek's little bullet head looked like a hairy billiard ball stuck on an ape'sbody as he bobbed up and down in front of it, feeding in sheets of cuproberylalloy. But the power in the machinist's arms seemed to match that of themotor. 

Dutch Bauer looked up from a sheet of blueprints and nodded approvingly, thenwent back to the elaborate calculations required to complete the design he wasworking on. The two co-operated perfectly, Dutch creating structural patternson paper, and Vlcek turning them into solid metal. 

On paper, the Santa Maria was shaping up handsomely, though the only beauty ofthe ship itself was to be that given by severe utility. Short and squat, withflaring blast tubes, she showed little resem


blance to the classic cigar-hulls of a thousand speculative artists. The onegreat purpose was strength with a minimum of weight,, and the locating of thecenter of gravity below the thrust points of the rockets. When completed,
there would be no danger of her tipping her nose back to Earth on the takeoff. 

Out on the ways that had been thrown up hastily, gaunt girders were shapinginto position to form her skeleton, and some of the outer sheathing was inposition. The stubby air fins that would support her in the air until speedwas reached were lying beside her, ready to be attached, and a blower wasalready shooting in insulation where her double hull was completed. Spaceitself would be insulation against heat loss, but the rays of the unfilteredsunlight needed something to check them, or the men inside the ship would havebeen boiled long before Mars was reached. Hsi Kung was running the blower,
babbling at it in singsong Peking dialect. At a time like this, they were allcommon laborers when there was work to be done. 

Erin pulled on coveralls and reached for the induction welder, while JimmyShaw consulted his blueprints. "Wonder why Doug hasn't shown up?" the boyasked. "He usually gets back from the mainland before morning, but it's ninealready. Hmm. Looks like Hank's machined enough hull plates to keep us busyuntil supper." 

"It does, though where he finds time is a puzzle. He must work all night. Weneed other workers, if we're to compete with Stewart's force. Even countingKung, eight men aren't enough for this job." Erin began climbing up the woodenframing that gave access to the hull, wondering whether his heart would botherhim today. Sleep had been slow coming the night before, and he was tired. Thiswork was too heavy for an old man, though he hadn't thought of himself as oldbefore. Certainly he didn't look old. 


"Wonder why Doug goes to town once a week?" he asked. 

Jimmy chuckled. "Don't you know? He's found a girl friend there, believe it ornot. Some woman has either taken pity on him, or he's found his nerve atlast." 

Doug wasn't exactly the sort that would appeal to women. His short, scrawnyfigure was all angles, and his face, topped by its thin mop of reddish hair,
was vaguely like that of an eagle. Then, too, he usually stuttered aroundwomen. 

Erin smiled faintly. "It's a shame, in a way, that Doug's so shy around girls.
I hope he has better luck with this one than that other." 

"So do I, though I wouldn't tell him so. He's been as cocky as a rooster sincehe found this Helen." Jimmy settled into position with 

a grunt and began moving a sheet into place as it came up on the magneticgrapple Jack was working below him. "Okay, fire away." 

The welder was heavy, and the heat that poured up from the plates sapped atMorse's strength. He was conscious of sudden relief at noon when a shout cameup to him. He released the welder slowly, rubbing tired muscles, and lookeddown at the weaving form of Doug Wratten. One of the physicist's thin arms wasmotioning him down erratically. 

"Drunk!" Jimmy diagnosed in amazement. "Didn't know he touched the stuff." 

There was no question of Doug's state. His words were thick and muffled asErin reached him. "Go 'head 'n' fire me," he muttered thickly. "Fire me, Erin.
Kick m' out 'thout a good word. I'm a low-down dirty dog, tha's what." 

"For being drunk, Doug? That hardly justifies such extreme measures." 

"Huh-uh. Who's drunk? It's tha' girl. ... I foun' the leak we been worrVabout." 

Erin got an arm around him and began moving toward the bunk-house, meaning topay no attention to his mumbled words. But the last ones struck home. The leakof information to Stewart's carnp had been troubling them all for the last twomonths. "Yes?" he encouraged. 

" 'S the girl. She's a spy for Stewart." His voice stuck in his throat and herumbled unhappily. "Use'a be his sec'tary, planted her on me. Jus' usin' me,
tha's all. Saw a letter she was writin' him when I was waitin' for her to come 
down. Din't wait anymore. . . . Jus' usin' me; tol' me she was in'rested in mywork. Tol' me she loved me. Foun'out all I knew. . . . Better fire me, Erin." 

"I think not, Doug. It might have happened to any of us. Why don't you go tosleep?" 

Wratten rolled over in the bed as he was released, gagging sickly, and moaningto himself. "I love . . . Helen . . . Damn Helen!" As Erin closed the door,
his voice came out, pleading. "Don't tell Jimmy; he'd laugh." 

Jimmy stood at the door as Erin came out. "Poor devil," he said. "I heard 


enough to know what happened. Anything I can do for him?" 

"Let him sleep it off. I'll have a talk with him when he wakes up and see whatI can do about bolstering his faith in himself." 

"Okay," Jimmy agreed, "but it was a dirty, rotten trick of Stew


art's, using him like that. Say, Dad's up at the shack swearing at somethingelse Stewart's done, and yelling for you. I just went up there." 

Erin grunted, and turned hastily toward the temporary office building they haderected. It was always something, except when it was more than one thing.
First the fire, the trouble with the patent, now safely squelched, difficultyin obtaining tools, and one thing after another, all meant to wear down theirmorale. This was probably one of the master strokes that seemed to happenalmost at regular intervals. 

Sometimes he wondered whether either of them would ever succeed; forty yearsof rivalry had produced no results except enough to keep them trying. Now,
when success for one of them seemed at hand, the feud was going on morebitterly than before, though it was mostly one-sided. And war was menacing theworld again, as it would always threaten a world where there were no otherescape valves for men's emotions. They needed a new frontier, free of nationalbarriers, where the headstrong could fight nature instead of their brothers. 

He had hoped to provide that escape valve in leading men to another planet,
just as Stewart hoped. But would either of them succeed? Erin was sure ofStewart's ultimate failure—explosives couldn't do the trick; though he hadenough of a sense of humor to realize that Stewart was saying the same thingabout him and his method. If only there could be peace until he finished! 

Shaw was waiting impatiently, swearing' coldly in a voice Erin hadn't heardsince the days when Tom was tricked out of a discovery by a company for whichhe'd worked as metallurgist, and he joined the men on the island. "The mail'sin," he said, breaking off his flow of invectives. "Here's a present fromCaptain Hitchkins—says he can't get the cargo of beryllium alloy we orderedmade up. And here's the letter from the Beryl Company." 

Erin picked up the letter and read it slowly. It began with too profuseapologies, then cited legal outs: "—will realize that we are not breaking ourcontract by this action, since it contains a clause to the effect that our ownneeds shall come first. Mr. G. R. Stewart, who has controlling interest in ourcompany, has requisitioned our entire supply, and we are advised by our legaldepartment that this contingency is covered by the clause mentioned. Thereforewe can no longer furnish the alloy you desire. We regret—" 

He skimmed the passage of regret and polite lies, to center on a 

sentence at the end, which conveyed the real message, and revealed the sourceof the letter. "We doubt that you can secure beryllium alloy at any price, aswe are advised that Mr. Stewart is using all that the market can supply. Ifsuch is not the case, we shall, of course, be glad to extend our best wishesin your enterprise." 

"How about that?" he asked Shaw, pointing to the last sentence. "Have youinvestigated?" 


"Don't need to. Hitchkins showed more brains than I gave him credit for. Hescoured the market for us, on his own initiative, and beryllium just ain't."
Shaw passed over the other letters that had come, reverting to his invectives.
"Now what do we do?" 

"Without beryllium, nothing. We'll have to get it, someway." But Erinwondered. Whatever else Stewart was, he was thorough, and his last stroke hadbeen more than the expected major move. 

The supper table had turned into a conference room, since news of thatimportance was impossible to keep. Even Doug Wratten had partially forgottenhis own troubles, and was watching Erin. Kung stood unnoticed in the doorway,
his moon face picturing the general gloom. 

Dutch Bauer finished his explanation and concluded. "So, that is it. Noberyllium, no Santa Maria. Even aluminum alloys are too heavy for good design.
Aluminum—bah! Hopeless." He shrugged and spread his pudgy hands to show justhow hopeless it was. 

Jimmy grunted and considered. "How about magnesium alloys— something likemagnalium?" he asked, but without much hope. "It's even lighter thanberyllium—1.74 density instead of 1.8." 

"Won't work." Their eyes had turned to Shaw, who was the metallurgist, and hisanswer was flat. "Alloys aren't high enough in melting point, aren't hardenough, and don't have the strength of the one we've been using. When the shipuses the air for braking, or when the sun shines on it in space, we'll needsomething that won't soften up at ordinary temperatures; and that meansberyllium." 

"Then how about the foreign markets?" Jack wanted to know. "My fa ... Mr.
Stewart can't control all of them." 

Erin shook his head. "No luck. They're turning all they can get into bombingplanes and air torpedoes. They're not interested in idealism." 

"I liked that new helix, too." Jack tapped his fingers on the table, thensnapped them out flat. "Well, there goes a nice piece of applied 

atomics. We should have bought our own beryllium plant, I guess." 

"And have to close down because Stewart gained control of the new process forgetting beryllium out of its ores." Shaw grunted. "We'd have had to fall backon the old process of extracting it by dissolving out in alkalies." 

Erin looked up suddenly, staring at Shaw. "When I was first starting," he saidthoughtfully, "I considered buying one of the old plants. It's still standing,
all the machinery in place, but it's been closed down by the competition ofthe new process. The owner's hard up, but he can't sell the place for love ormoney." 

Jimmy's face dropped its scowl and came forth with a fresh grin; even themention of a faint hope was enough to send up his enthusiasm. "So we buy it orget him to open up, start using it, and go ahead in spite of Stewart. How muchdoes the old system cost, Dad?" 


"About fifteen hundred dollars a ton, using a couple of tricks I could showthem. Going to try it, Erin?" 

Erin nodded silently, but the frown was still on his face as he got up andwent out to the new office where he could use the visiphone. The plant had amaximum capacity of four tons a week, which was hardly adequate, and therewere other objections, but trying would do no harm. The frown was heavier whenhe came back. 

"Sanders will open up," he reported, "but he'll need money to fix the plantup. He agrees to turn the plant over to us, and furnish the alloy at the priceTom mentioned, but we'll have to invest about sixty thousand in new equipment.
Add that to the cost of the metal, and it runs to a rather steep figure." 

"But-" 

"I know. I'm not kicking about the money, or wouldn't be if I had it tospend." Erin hadn't meant to tell them of his own troubles, but there was noway to avoid it now. "Stewart left nothing to chance. The stocks andinvestments I had began to slip a month ago, and they kept slipping. Mybrokers advised me that they have liquidated everything, and I have about tencents on a dollar left; today's mail brought their letter along with the othernews." 

Jack swore hotly. "Da—Stewart always could ruin a man on the market. Erin,
I've got a decent legacy from my mother, and we're practically running a cooperative 
here, anyhow. It's all yours." 

Erin saw suddenly just what the loss of the boy had meant to Stewart, and thelast of numbness from his own son's death slipped away. His smile was as sweetas a woman's, but he shook his head. "Did you read your mail today?" 

"No, why?" 

"Because Stewart would know his own son well enough to take precautions. Seeif I'm not right." 

They watched intently as the letters came out of Jack's pocket and weresorted. He selected one bulky one and ripped it open hastily, drawing out thepaper where all could see, skimming over it until it formed a completepicture. "It almost seems that someone is deliberately trying to ruin you,'"
he read. " 'Our best efforts have failed completely—' Damn! There's aboutenough left to pay for the new machinery needed, and that's all." 

Doug came out of his trance. "I won't be needing my savings for the futurenow," he said grimly. "It's not much, but I'd appreciate your using it, Erin.
And I don't think any of us will want the salary you've been paying us." 

The others nodded. All of them had been paid more than well, and had had nochance to spend much of their salary. Their contributions were made as amatter of course, and Erin totaled them. 

"It may be enough," he said. "Of course, we form a closed corporation, allprofits—if there are any from this—being distributed. I'll have the legalpapers drawn up. Perhaps it will be enough, perhaps not, but we can put it tothe test. Our big trouble is that we need new workers, men to help Hank 


particularly. Most of the machining will have to be done here on the islandnow." 

"Mebbeso you fella catchee plenty man." Kung hobbled forward to the table, adirty leather sack in his hands. "You fella catchee li'l planet, fin' alleesame time catchee time makee free." His jargon went on, growing too thick forthem to understand. 

Tom Shaw held up a protesting hand. "Talk chink," he ordered. "I spent fiveyears there once, so I can get the lingo if you take your time." 

Kung threw him a surprised and grateful glance, and broke into a ramblingdiscourse, motioning toward the sky, the bag in his hand, and counting on hisfingers. 

Shaw turned back to the others. 

"He says he wants to join up, putting in the money he's been saving for hisfuneral when they ship his body back to China. Wants to know if his race willbe allowed on the other planets when we reach them?" 

"Tell him the planets are big enough for all races, provided ships are builtto carry them." 

"Very good, boss fella, sawee plenty." Kung lapsed again into Peking dialect. 

"He says he can get us workers then, who'll obey with no questions asked, andwon't cost us more than enough to buy them cheap food. His tong will be gladto furnish them on his say-so. Since Japan conquered them and they digestedthe Japanese into their own nation again, it seems they need room to expand. 

"Darn it, Erin, with even the Chinese cook behind you, we're bound to beatStewart." 

Captain Hitchkins had left the unloading to the ruffian he called his mate andwas examining the progress made on the island. His rough English face was acurious blend of awe and skepticism. "Naow was that 'ere a ship, mitey," hetold Erin, "I'd s'y 'twas a maost seaworthy job, that I would, thaough she'slackin' a bit o' keel. 'N' I m'y allaow as she's not bad, not bad atawl." 

Erin left him talking, paying as little attention to his speech as the captainwould have to a landlubber's comments on the tub of a freighter. Hitchkins wasentirely satisfied with that arrangement. The Santa Maria could speak forherself. 

The hull was completed, except for a section deliberately left open for theadmission of the main atomic generator, and a gleaming coat of silver lacquerhad been applied, to give the necessary luster for the deflection of the sun'srays. In comparison to a seagoing ship, she was small, but here on the ways,
seen by herself, she loomed up like some monster out of a fantasy book. Evenwith the motors installed and food for six years stocked, she still held acomfortable living space for the eight men who would go with her. 

"I've heard as 'aow they've a new lawr passed, mikin' aout against the like o'such, thaough," Hitchkins went on. "Naow w'y would they do that?" 


"People are always afraid of new things, Captain. I'm not worried about it,
though." Erin turned over the bills of lading. "Have any trouble this trip?" 

"Some o' the men were minded the p'y was a bit laow. But they chinged theirminds w'en they come to, that they did." He chuckled. "I've a bit o' a w'y wi'the men, sir." 

They were back at the dock now, watching the donkey engines laboring under theload of alloy plates that was being transferred to the machine shop. TheChinese laborers were sweating and strug


gling with the trucks on which these were hauled, but they grinned at him andnodded. He had no complaint with the labor Kung had obtained. If the moneyheld out, things looked hopeful. 

Jack Stewart located him, and yelled. "There's a Mr. Stewart at the office,"
he said flatly. "He came while you were showing Captain Hitchkins the ship,
and is waiting for you. Shall I tell him to go on waiting?" 

"No, I'll see him; might as well find out the worst." Stewart had visiphonedthat he was coming under a temporary truce, so Erin was not surprised. "Carryon, Captain." He turned after Jack toward the shack, wishing the boy wouldtreat his father a little less coldly. It wasn't good for a man to feel thatway about his father, and he wished Stewart no personal problems. 

Jack swung off toward the ship as they sighted Stewart, and the older man'seyes followed the retreating figure. 

"He's a good boy, Greg," Erin said, not unkindly. "I didn't plan this, youknow." 

"Skip it. He's no concern of mine, the stubborn ass." Stewart held out anewspaper. "I thought you might be interested to know that the law has beenpassed against the use of atomic power in any spaceship. It just went throughthe state legislature and was signed by the governor." 

"Don't you think it's a bit high-handed? I thought that interstate andinternational commerce was out of the hands of the state legislature." 

Stewart tapped the paper. "But there's no provision against their ruling oninterplanetary commerce, Erin. A few scare stories in the Sunday supplements,
and a few dinners to the right men did the trick. They were sure the Martiansmight find the secret and turn atomic power back on us." 

"So you had to come and bring me the news. I suppose you expect me to quit nowand twiddle my thumbs." 

"That offer of a berth on my ship—which will work—still stands. Of course, ifI have to get out an injunction to stop you, it will make matters a littlemore difficult, but the result will be the same." 

Erin smiled grimly. "That was the poorest move you've made, Greg," he said.
"Your lawmakers bungled. I read the law, and it forbids the use of atomicpower in the 'vacuum of space.' And good scientists will tell you that avacuum is absolute nothing in space-but between the planets, at least, thereare a few molecules of matter to the cubic inch. Your law and injunction won't 


work." 

"You've seen a lawyer, I suppose?" 

"I have, and he assures me there's nothing to stop me. Furthermore, until Ireach space, the law doesn't apply, and when I'm in space, no Earth-made lawscan govern me." 

Stewart shrugged. "So you've put one over on me again. You always werepersistent, Erin. The only man I haven't been able to beat —yet. Maybe I'llhave to wait until your crazy ship fails, but I hope not." 

"I'll walk down to the dock with you," Erin offered. "Drop in any time youwant to, provided you come alone." He was feeling almost friendly now thatsuccess was in sight. Stewart fell in beside him, his eyes turned toward thegroup of laborers Jack was directing. 

"I suppose—" he began, and stopped. 

"He goes along, according to his own wishes." 

Stewart grunted. "You realize, Erin, that one false attempt might set thepossibility of the public's accepting rocket flight back fifty years. And themen in the ship would be—well, wouldn't be." He hesitated. "How much would youtake to stop it?" 

"You know better than that." But Erin realized that the question was more anautomatic reaction than anything else. When Stewart asked that, he could seeno other solution, and money had been his chief weapon since he made his firstfortune. 

As the man left in the little boat that had brought him, Erin wondered,
though. Was Stewart licked, for once and for all? Or was it only thecombination of seeing his son turned against him, and finding his carefullylaid scheme hadn't made a decent fizzle? He shrugged and dismissed it. Thereseemed little more chance for trouble, but if it came, it would be theunexpected, and worry would do no good. 

It was the unexpected, but they were not entirely unwarned. The first palelight of the false dawn showed when a commotion at the door awakened them.
Doug got up grumpily and went groping to* ward the key. "Some darned Chinesein a fight, I suppose," he began. 

Then he let out a sound that scarcely fitted a human throat and jerked backin. The others could see only two small, rounded arms that came up around hisneck, and a head of hair that might have been brown in a clearer light. Thevoice was almost hysterical. 

"Doug! Oh, I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time." 

"Helen!" Doug's words were frigid, but he trembled under the robe. "What are—
don't start anything. ... I saw the letter." 

They could see her more clearly now, and Jimmy whistled. No 

wonder Doug had taken it so hard. She was almost crying, and her arms refusedto let him go. "I knew you'd seen the first page—part of it. But you didn't 


read it all." 

"Well?" Only the faintest ghost of a doubt tinged his inflection. 

"I wasn't just acting the Saturday before; I meant it. That's why I waswriting the letter—to tell Mr. Stewart I was through with him." She gropedinto her purse and came out with a wrinkled sheet. "Here, you can see foryourself. And then you were gone and I found this in the wastebasket where youthrew it, so I didn't quit. I thought you'd never speak to me. Believe me,
Doug!" 

His wizened little face wasn't funny now, though two red spots showed upridiculously on his white skin. His long, tapering fingers groped toward her,
touched, and then drew back. She caught them quickly. "Well—" he said. Then:
"What are you doing here, anyhow, Helen . . . Helenya?" 

She jerked guiltily. "Stewart. His lieutenant—Russell—wanted the combinationto your alarm system again—forgot it." 

"You gave it?" 

"I had to. Then I came here to warn you. There are a bunch of them, every raton his force, and they're coming here. I was afraid you'd be—" 

There was something almost wonderful about Doug then. All the silly cockinessand self-consciousness were gone. "All right," he said quietly. "Go back tothe cook shack and stay there; you'll know where to find it. No, do as I say.
We'll talk it over later, Helen. I don't want you around when it happens. Goon. Erin, Tom, you'll know what to do. I'll wake the Chinese and get them inorder." And he was gone at a run. 

They didn't stop to dress fully, but went out into the chill air as they were.
Doug had the Chinese lined up and was handing out the few spare weaponsgrimly, explaining while he worked. A tall North Country yellow man asked afew questions in a careful Harvard accent, then turned back and began barkingorders in staccato Mandarin. Whether they would be any good in a fight was aquestion, but the self-appointed leader seemed to know his business. They wereno cowards, at least. 

Tom Shaw passed Jimmy a dried plug of tobacco. "Better take it," he advised.
"When you're fighting the first time, it takes something 

strong in your mouth to keep your stomach down, son. And shoot for theirbellies—it's easier and just as sure." 

There was no time to throw up embankments at the wharf, so they drew back tothe higher ground, away from the buildings, which would have sheltered them,
but covered any flanking movement by the gunmen. Jack stared incredulously atthe gun in his hand, and wiped the sweat from his hands. "Better lend me someof that tobacco," he said wryly. "My stomach's already begun fighting. Youusing that heavy thing?" 

"Sure." The gun was a sixty-pound machine rifle, equipped with homemade gripsand shoulder and chest pads, set for single fire. It looked capable ofcrushing Shaw's lanky figure at the first recoil, but he carried it 


confidently. "It's been done before; grew up with a gun in my hand in theGreen Mountains." 

Erin rubbed a spot over his heart surreptitiously and waited. Stewart would bedefeated only when he died, it seemed, and maybe not then. 

Then they made out the figures in the tricky light of the dawn, long shadowsthat slunk silently over the dock and advanced up the hill toward thebunkhouse. Some movement must have betrayed the watchers, for one of theadvancing figures let out a yell and pointed. 

"Come on, mugs," a hoarse voice yelled. "Here's our meat, begging to becaught. A bonus to the first man that gets one." 

Whing! Shaw twitched and swore. "Only a crease," he whispered, "and anaccident. They can't shoot." He raised the heavy gun, coming upright, andaimed casually. It spoke sharply, once, twice, then in a slow tattoo. Thelight made the shooting almost impossible, but two of the men yelled, and onedropped. 

"Make it before sunup," he warned, as the thugs drew back nervously. "Thelight'll hit our eyes then and give them the advantage." Then the men belowevidently decided it was only one man they had to fear and came boiling up,
yelling to encourage themselves; experience had never taught them to expectresistance. Shaw dropped back onto his stomach, beside the others, shootingwith even precision, while Erin and Jimmy followed suit. The rest wereequipped only with automatics, which did little good. 

"Huh!" Jack rubbed a shoulder where blood trickled out, his eyes Still on theadvance. 

Erin felt the gun in his hand buck backward and realized suddenly that he wasfiring on the rushing men. 

Jimmy's voice was surprised. "I hit a man—I think he's dead." He shivered andstuck his face back to the sights, trying to repeat it. 

Shaw spat out a brown stream. "Three," he said quietly. "Out of practice, Iguess." 

The few Chinese with handarms attempted a cross fire as the men came abreast,
but their marksmanship was hopeless. Then all were swept together, wavesbreaking against each other, and individual details were lost. Guns were nogood at close range, and Erin dropped the rifle, grabbing quickly for thehatchet in his belt as a heavy-set man singled him out. 

He saw the gun butt coming at him in the man's hand, ducked instinctively, andfelt it hit somewhere. But the movement with the hatchet seemed to completeitself, and he saw the man drop. Something tingled up his spine, and theweapon came down again, viciously. Brains spattered. "Shouldn't hit a manwho's down," a voice seemed to say, but the heat of fighting was on him, andhe felt no . regret at the broken rule. 

A sharp stab struck at his back, and he swung to see a knife flashing for asecond stroke. Pivoting on his heel, he dived, striking low, and heard theknife swish by over his head. Then he grabbed, caught, and twisted, and themobsman dropped the metal blade from a broken arm. Most of the fighting had 


turned away down the hill, and he moved toward the others. 

Jimmy spat out a stream of tobacco in the face of an opponent, just as anotherswung a knife from his side. Erin jumped forward, but Tom Shaw was before him,
and the knife fell limply as Shaw fired an automatic from his hip. "Five,"
Erin heard his dispassionate voice. Beside Shaw, Hank Vlcek was reducing headswith a short iron bar. 

Erin moved into the fight again, swinging the hatchet toward a blood-coveredface, not waiting to see its effects. Two of the Chinese lay quietly, and onewas dragging himself away, but none of his other men seemed fatally injured.
He scooped up a fallen knife, jumped for one man, and twisted suddenly to sinkit in the side of Jack's opponent, then jerked toward the two who were drivingDoug backward. 

Doug stumbled momentarily, and something slashed down. Morse saw the littlebody sag limply, and threw the hatchet. Metal streaked through the air to buryitself in the throat of one of the men, and Erin's eyes flashed sideways. Kungstood there, another kitchen knife poised for the throwing. The remaining oneof Doug's assailants saw 

it, too, and the knife and gun seemed to work as one. Kung gasped and twistedover on his bad leg; the knife missed, but Erin's hatchet found its mark. Onlya split second had elapsed, but time had telescoped out until a hundred thingscould be seen in one brief flash. 

And then, without warning, it seemed, the battle was over and the gunmen drewback, running for the dock. Shaw grabbed for his gun and yelled, "Stop!" Awhining bullet carried his message more strongly, and they halted. He spat thelast of his tobacco out. "Pick up your dead and wounded, and get out! TellStewart he can have the bodies with our compliments!" 

Russell lay a few yards off, and their leader had been the first to fall underErin's hatchet. Lacking direction, they milled back, less than a third of theoriginal number, and began dragging the bodies toward the dock. Shaw followedthem grimly, the ugly barrel of the machine gun lending authority to hiswords, and Erin turned toward Doug. 

The physicist was sitting up. "Shoulder," he said thickly. "Only stunned whenI hit the ground. Better see about Kung over there." Then a rushing figure ofa girl swooped down, taking possession of him and biting out choking cries athis wound. Erin left him in Helen's hands and turned to the cook. 

It was too late. Kung had joined his ancestors, and the big Hill CountryChinese stood over him. "A regrettable circumstance, Mr. Morse," heenunciated. "Hsi Kung tendered you his compliments and requested that I carryon for him. I can assure you that our work will continue as before. In view ofthe fact that you are somewhat depleted as to funds, Hsi Kung has requestedthat his funeral be a simple one." 

Erin looked at Kung's body in dull wonder; since he could remember, the manhad apparently lived only that he might have a funeral whose display wouldimpress the whole of his native village in China* "I guess we can ship himback," he said slowly. "How many others?" 

'Two, sir. Three with injuries, but not fatal, I am sure. I must congratulateyour men on the efficiency with which the battle was conducted. Most 


extraordinary." 

"Thanks." Erin's throat felt dry, and his knees threatened to buckle underhim, while his heart did irregular flip-flops. To him it seemed that it wasmore than extraordinary none of his friends were dead; all were battered up,
but they had gotten off with miraculous ease. "Can some of your men cook?" 

"I should feel honored, sir, if you would appoint your servant, Robert Wah, toHsi Kung's former position." 

"Good. Serve coffee to all, and the best you can find for any that want toeat—your men as well." Then, to Shaw who had come up: "Finished?" 

Shaw nodded. "All gone, injured and wounded with them. Wonder if Stewart'sfool enough to drag us into court over it? I didn't expect this of him." 

"Neither did I, but it will be strictly private, I'm—sure." Erin's kneesweakened finally, and Shaw eased him to a seat. He managed a smile at theforeman's worried face. "It's nothing—just getting old." He'd have to see adoctor about his heart soon. But there was still work to be done. With 
surprise, he noticed blood trickling down one arm. Stewart had done that; itwas always Stewart. 

The clerks in Gregory Stewart's outer office sat stiffly at their work, andthe machines beat out a regular tattoo, without any of the usual interruptionsfor talk. Stewart's private secretary alone sat idle, biting her nails. In herthirteen years of work, she thought she had learned all the man's moods, butthis was a new one. 

He hadn't said anything, and there had been no blustering, but the tension inthe office all came from the room in which he sat, sucking at his pipe andstaring at a picture. That picture, signed "Mara," had always puzzled her. Ithad been there while his wife was still living, but it was not hers. 

The buzzer on the PBX board broke in, and the girl operator forgot her othercalls to plug in instantly. "Yes, sir," she said hastily. "Erin Morse, onKroll Island. I have the number. Right away, sir." 

She could have saved her unusual efforts; at the moment, Stewart was not evenconscious of her existence. He stared at the blank visi-screen, his lipsmoving, but no sound came out. There was a set speech by his side, writtencarefully in the last hour, but now that he had made his decision, he crumpledit and tossed it in the waste-basket. 

The screen snapped into life, and the face of his son was on it, a face thatfroze instantly. At least they were open for calls today, which was unusual;
ordinarily, no one answered the buzzer. Stewart's eyes centered on theswelling under the shirt, where the boy's wound was bandaged. "Jack," he saidquickly. "You all right?" 

The boy's voice was not the one he knew. 'Tour business, sir?" 

Humbleness came hard to Stewart, who had fought his way up from the rawbeginnings only because he lacked it. Now it was the only means to his end.
"I'd like to speak to Erin, please." 


"Mr. Morse is busy." The boy reached for the switch, but the other's quickmotion stayed his hand. 

"This is important. I'm not fighting this morning." 

Jack shrugged, wincing at the dart of pain, and turned away. Stewart watchedhim fade from the screen's focus and waited patiently until Erin's face cameinto view. It was a tired face, and the erect shoulders were less erect thistime. 

Morse stared into the viewer without a change of expression. "Well, Stewart?" 

"The fight's over, Erin." It was the hardest sentence Stewart had ever spoken,
but he was glad to get it over. "I hadn't meant things to work out the waythey did, last night. That was Russell's idea, the dirty rat, and I'm notsorry he found his proper reward. When I do any killing, I'll attend to itmyself." 

Erin still stared at him with a set face, and he went on, digging out everyword by sheer willpower. "I'd meant them to blow up your ship, I admit. Maybethat would have been worse, I don't know. But Russell must have had a killingstreak in him somewhere, and took things into his own hands. Who was killed?" 

"A Chinese cook and two others of the same race. Your men might have donemore." 

"Maybe. Men might have. Yellow river rats never could put up a decent fightagainst opposition of the caliber you've got!" Stewart checked off a point ona small list and asked, "Any relatives of the dead?" 

"The cook had an uncle in China—he must have slipped over the border, sincehe's not American-born. I'm shipping him back with the best funeral I canafford. The others came from Chinatown." 

"I'll have the cook picked up today and see that he gets a funeral" with athousand paid mourners. The same to the others, and ten thousand cash to therelatives of each. No, I'd rather; I'm asking it as a favor, Erin." 

Erin smiled thinly. "If you wish. Your rules may be queer, from my standards,
but it seems you do have a code of your own. I'm glad of that, even if it's abit rough." 

Stewart twitched his mouth jerkily; that hurt, somehow. Erin had a habit ofmaking him seem inferior. Perhaps his code was not the •porting one, but itdid include two general principles: mistakes 

aren't rectified by alibis, and a man who has proved himself your equaldeserves respect. 

"I don't fight a better man, anyway, Erin," he admitted slowly. "You took allI handed out and came up fighting. So you'll have no trouble getting suppliesfrom now on, and we'll complete this race on equal footing. How did Jack takeit?" 

"Like a man, Greg." In all the years of their enmity, neither had quitedropped the use of first names, and Erin's resentment was melting. "He's a 


fine boy. You sired well." 

"Thank God for that, at least. Erin, you hold a patent on an air-
reconditioning machine, and I need it. The government's building submarines,
and I can get a nice bunch of contracts if I can supply that and assure themof good air for as long as they want to stay under." Stewart's voice had gonebusinesslike. "Would ten percent royalties and a hundred thousand down buy allbut space rights? It's not charity, if that worries you." 

"I didn't think it was." For himself, the price mattered little, but here wasa chance to pay back some of the money the others had invested with him. Hemade his decision instantly. "Send over your contracts, and I'll sign them." 

"Good. Now, with all threats gone, how about that berth on my ship I offeredyou? She'll be finished in a week, with a dependable fuel, and there's roomfor one more." 

Erin smiled broadly now at Stewart's old skepticism of his methods. "Thanks,
but the Santa Maria is practically done, too, using a dependable power source.
Why not come with me?" 

It was Stewart's turn to smile. And as he cut connections, it seemed to himthat even the face in the picture was smiling for the first time in almostforty years. 

Erin rubbed his wounded arm tenderly and wondered what it would feel like togo ahead without a constant, lurking fear. At the moment, the change was tooradical for his comprehension. Things looked too easy. 

The Santa Maria was off the skids, and the ground swell on the ocean bobbedher up and down gently, like a horse champing at the bit. Not clipper built,
Erin thought, but something they could be proud of. Now that she was finished,
all the past trouble seemed unreal, like some disordered nightmare. 

"Jack and I are making a test run at once," he announced. "It'll be 

dark in a few minutes, so you can follow our jets and keep account of oursuccess or failure. No, just the two of us, this first time. We're going upfour thousand miles and coming back down." 

"How many of us go on the regular trip?" Jimmy wanted to know. "Dutch sayshe'll stay on the ground and design them. Since Doug's turned into a marriedman, he'll stay with his wife, I suppose, but how about the rest?" 

They nodded in unison; though there had been no decision, it had always beenunderstood that all were to go. Doug wrapped his arm possessively around Helenand faced Erin. "I'm staying with my wife, all right," he stated, "but she'scoming along. Why should men hog all the glory?" 

Erin glanced at the girl hastily. This had not been in the plans. "I'm going,"
she said simply, and he nodded. This thing was too great for distinction ofsex—or race. He motioned to Robert Wah who stood in the background, looking onwistfully, and the tall Chinese bowed deeply. 

"I should be honored, sir, by the privilege." Pleasure lighted his face 


quickly, and he moved forward unobtrusively, adding himself to their company.
That made eight, the number the ship was designed for. 

Jack was already climbing into the port, and Erin turned to follow him,
motioning the others back. There was no need risking additional lives on thisfirst test, though he felt confident of this gleaming monster he had dreamedand fought for. 

"Ready?" he asked, strapping himself in. Jack nodded silently, and Erin'sfingers reached for the firing keys. They were trembling a little. Here underthem lay the work of a lifetime. Suppose Stewart was right, after all? Heshook the sudden doubt from himself, and the keys came down under his fingers. 

The great ship spun around in the water, pointing straight out toward Europe.
The ground swell made the first few seconds rough riding, but she gatheredspeed under her heels and began skimming the crests until her motion wasperfectly even. All the years Erin had 

•pent in training, in planning, and in imagining a hundred times everyemergency and its answers rose in his mind, and the metal 
•round him became almost an extension of his body. 
Now she was barely touching the water, though there was a great wake behindher that seethed and boiled. Then the wake came to 

•n end, and she rose in the air around her, the stubby fins supporting her atthe speed she was making. Erin opened up the motors, tilting 
the stick delicately in his hand, and she leaped through the air like a soultorn free. He watched the hull pyrometers, but the tough alloy could stand anamazing amount of atmospheric friction. 

"Climb!" he announced at last, and the nose began tilting up smoothly. Therear-viewer on the instrument board showed the waves running together and theocean seemed to drop away from them and shrink. At half power she was risingrapidly in a vertical climb. "Look!" Jack's voice cut through the headyintoxication Erin felt, and he took his eyes from the panel. Off to the side,
and at some distance, a long streak of light climbed into the sky, reachedtheir height, and went on. Even through the insulated hull, a faint boomingsound reached them. "Stewart's ship! He's beat us to the start!" "The fool!"
The cry was impulsive, and he saw the boy wince under it slightly. "Theremight be some small chance, though. I hope he makes it. He'll follow an orbitthat takes the least amount of fuel, and we'll be cutting through with atleast a quarter gravity all the way for comfort. He can't beat us." 

The course of the other ship, he could see, held true and steady. Stewart knewhow to pilot; holding that top-heavy mass of metal on its tail was no smalljob. 

Jack gripped the straps that held him to his seat, but said nothing, his eyesglued on the blast that mushroomed down from the other ship, until it passedout of sight. Behind the Santa Maria, the pale-blue jet looked insignificantafter seeing the other. Something prickled oddly at Erin's skin, and hewondered whether it was the Heaviside layer, but it passed and there was onlythe press of acceleration. 


He opened up again as the air dropped behind, and the smooth hum of theatomics answered sweetly. Jack released himself and hitched his way toward therear observation room, then fought the acceleration back to Erin's side. "Jetsare perfect," he reported. "Not a waver, and they're holding in lineperfectly. No danger to the tubes. How high?" 

"Two hundred miles, and we're making about twenty-five miles a minute now. Getback to your seat, son, I'm holding her up." He tapped the keys for morepower, and grunted as the pull struck them. By the time they were a fewthousand miles out, most of Earth's gravity would be behind them, and theywouldn't have that added pressure to contend with. Acceleration alone was badenough. 

At the two-thousand-mile limit, Morse twisted the wheel of the control stickand began spinning her over on her tail. Steering without the leverage ofatmosphere was tricky, though part of his train


ing had taken that into account, to the best of his ability. He completed thereversal finally, and set the keys for a deceleration that would stop them atthe four-thousand-mile limit. 

Jack was staring out at the brilliant points made by the stars against theblack of space, but he gasped as Erin cut the motors. "How far?" he askedagain. "There seems to be almost no gravity." 

"Earth is still pulling us, but only a quarter strength. We've reached thefour-thousand mark we planned—and proved again that gravity obeys the laws ofinverse squares." The novelty of the sensation appealed to him, but the relieffrom the crushing weight was his real reason for cutting power. Now his heartlabored from weight and excitement, and he caught his breath, waiting for itto steady before turning back. 

"Ready?" he asked finally, and power came on. They were already moving slowlyback, drawn by the planet's pull. "Hold tight; I'm going to test my steering."
Under his hands the stick moved this way and that, and the ship struggled toanswer, sliding into great slow curves that would have been sudden twists andturns in the air. All his ingenuity in schooling himself hadn't fullycompensated for the difficulties, but practice soon straightened out the fewkinks left. 

His breath was coming in short gasps as he finished; the varying Itress ofgravity and acceleration had hit hard at him, and there was a dull thumping inhis chest. "Take over, Jack," he ordered, holding his words steady. "Do yougood to learn. Half acceleration." 

But the thumping went on, seeming to grow worse. Each breath came out with aneffort. Jack was intent on the controls, though there was little to do for themoment, and did not notice; for that, Erin was grateful. He really had to seea doctor; only fear of the diagnosis had made him put it off this long. 

"Reversal," Jack called. He began twisting the control, relying on^ puremathematics and quick reactions to do the trick. They began to come around,
but Erin could feel it was wrong. The turn went too far, was inaccuratelybalanced, and the ship picked up a lateral spin that would give rise to otherdifficulties. Here was one place where youth and youth's quick reflexes wereuseless. It took the steady hand of calculating judgment, and the head thathad imagined this so often it all seemed old. 


He fought his way forward, pressing back the heart that seemed to burstthrough his chest. Jack was doing his best, but he was not the ihip's master.
He welcomed Erin's hand that reached down for the Mick. Experience hadcorrected the few mistakes of 'the previous re


versal, and the ship began to come around in one long, accurate blast. When itstopped, her tail was steadily blasting against Earth. "I'll carry on." Erinknew he had to, since descent, even in an atmosphere, was far trickier than itmight seem. To balance the speed so that the air-fins supported her, withouttearing them off under too much pressure required no small skill. He buckledhimself back in, and let her fall rapidly. Time was more important, somethingtold him, than the ease of a slower descent. He waited till the last momentbefore tapping on more power, heard the motors thrum solidly, and waited forthe first signs of air. The pyrometer needles rose quickly, but not to theirdanger point. The tingling feeling lashed through him again, and was gone, andhe began maneuvering her into a spiral that would set her down in the waterwhere she could coast to the island. 

He glanced back at the boy, whose face expressed complete trust, and bit athis lips, but his main concern was for the ship. Once destroyed, that mightnever be duplicated. Time, he prayed, only time enough. The ocean was cominginto view through thin clouds below, but it still seemed too far. "God!"
Jack's cry cut into his worries. "To the left—it's the other 

ship." 

Erin stole a quick glance at the window, and saw a ragged streak of fire inthe distance. Stewart's ship must have failed. But there was no time for that.
The ocean was near, now. 

He cut into a long flat glide, striving for the delicate balance of speed andangle that would set her down without a rebound, and held her there. A dragfrom the friction of the water told him finally that she was down. More byluck than design, his landing was near the takeoff point, and the island beganpoking up dimly through the darkness. He threw on the weak forward jets,
guessing at the distance, and juggled the controls. 

There was a red knot of pain in his chest and a mist in front of his eyes thatmade seeing difficult, but he let her creep in until the wood timbers of thedock stood out clearly. Then the mist turned black, and he had only time tocut all controls. He couldn't feel the light crunch as she touched the shore. 

Erin was in bed in the bunkhouse when consciousness returned, and his onlydesire was to rest and relax. The strange man bending over him seemed about tointerfere, and he shoved him away weakly. Tom Shaw bent over him, putting hishands back and holding them until he desisted. 

"The ship is perfect," Tom's voice assured him, oddly soft for the foreman.
"We're all proud of you, Erin, and the doctor says there's no danger now." 

"Stewart?" he asked weakly. 

"His ship went out a few thousand miles, and the tubes couldn't stand theconcentrated heat of his jets. Worked all right on small models, but thevolume of explosives was cubed with the square of the tube diameter, and itwas too much. We heard his radio after he cut through the Heaviside, and he 


was trying to bring her down at low power without burning them out completely.
We haven't heard from the rescue squad, but they hope the men are safe." 

The strange man clucked disapprovingly. "Not too much talk," he warned. "Lethim rest." 

Erin stirred again, plucking at the covers. So he finally was seeing a doctor,
whether he wanted to or not. "Is there—" he asked. "Am I 

—grounded?" 

Shaw's hand fell over his, and the grizzled head nodded. "Sorry, Erin." 

Erin stood in the doorway of the bunkhouse, looking out over the buildingstoward the first star to come out. Venus, of course, but Mars would soon showup. He had not yet told the men that the flight was off, and they were talkingcontentedly behind him, discussing what they would find on Mars. 

A motorboat's drone across the water caught his attention and he turned hiseyes to the ocean. "There's someone coming," he announced. "At least they seemto be headed this way." 

Jimmy jumped up, scattering the cards he had been playing with his father.
"Darn! Must be the reporters. I notified the press that tonight was supposedto be the takeoff and forgot to tell them it was. postponed when you came backfrom the test. Shall I send them back?" 

"Bring them up. There should be room enough for them here. Have Wah servecoffee." Erin moved back toward his bunk, being careful to take it easy, andsank down. "There's something I have to tell them—and you at the same time." 

Helen brought him his medicine and he took it, wondering what reception hiswords would have with the newspapermen. Previous experience had made himexpect the worst. But these men were quiet 

•nd orderly as they filed in, taking seats around the recreation tables. 
Even though it had failed, Stewart's flight had taught them that rocketry wasa serious business. Also, they were picked men from the syndicates, not theyoung cubs he had dealt with before. Wah brought in coffee and brandy. 

"Your man tells us the flight has been delayed," one of them began. He showedno resentment at the long ride by rail and boat for nothing. "Can you tell us,
then, when you're planning to make it, and give us some idea of the principleof flight you use?" 

"Jimmy can give you mimeographed sheets of the ship's design and powersystem," Erin answered. "But the flight is put off indefinitely. Probably itwill be months before it occurs, and possibly years. It depends on how quicklyI can transfer my knowledge to a younger man." 

"But we understood a successful trial had been made, with no trouble." 

"No mechanical trouble, that is. But, gentlemen, no matter how perfectly builta machine may be, the human element must always be considered. In this case, 


it failed. I've been ordered not to leave the ground." 

There were gasps from his own men, and the tray in Wah's hands spilled to thefloor, unnoticed. Shaw and Jack moved about among the others, speaking in lowvoices. 

Among the newspapermen, bewilderment substituted for consternation. "I fail tosee—" the spokesman said. 

Erin found it difficult to explain to laymen, but he tried an example. "Whenthe Wright brothers made their first power flights, they had already gottenpractice from gliders. But suppose one of them had been given a plane withoutprevious experience and told to fly it across the Atlantic? This, to a muchgreater extent, is like that. 

"Perhaps later, if rocketry becomes established, men can be given flighttraining in a few weeks. Until then, only those who have spent years of groundwork can hope to master the more difficult problems of astronautics. This maysound like boasting to you, but an immediate flight without myself as pilot isout of the question." 

Jack struck in, silencing their questioning doubts. "I tried it, up there," hetold them, "and I had some experience with radio-controlled models. Butmathematics and intelligence, or even a good understanding of the principlesinvolved, aren't enough. It's like skating on frictionless ice, trying to cuta figure eight against a strong head wind. Without Erin, I wouldn't be here." 

They accepted the fact, and Erin went on. "Two men, to my knowl


edge, spent the time and effort to acquire the basic ground work —GregoryStewart and myself. Even though he crashed, killing two of his men, hedemonstrated his ability to hold a top-heavy ship on its course under the mosttrying conditions. To some extent, I have proved my own ability. But Stewarthas no ship and I have no pilot. Mars will have to wait until one of my ownmen can be given adequate preparation." 

The spokesman tapped his pencil against a pad of paper and considered. "But,
since each of you lacks what the other has, why not let Stewart pilot yourship? Apparently he's willing to give up his interests here and try for someother planet." 

"Because he doesn't consider my ship safe." Erin knew that it might provedetrimental to their acceptance of his design, but that couldn't be helped.
"Stewart and I have always been rivals, less even in fact than in ideas. Nowthat his own ship proved faulty, he'd hardly be willing to risk one in whichhe has no faith." 

A broad man in the background stirred uneasily, drawing his hat farther downover his face, which was buried in his collar. "Have you asked him?" hedemanded in a muffled voice. 

"No." It had never occurred to Erin to do so. "If you insist, I'll call him,
but there can be only one answer." 

The heavy man stood up, throwing back his hat and collar. "You might consultme before quoting my opinion, Erin," Gregory Stewart stated. "Even a foolsometimes has doubts of his own wisdom." The eyes of those in the room riveted 


on him, but he swung to his son, who was staring harder than the others. "Willthe Santa Maria get to Mars?" he asked. 

Jack nodded positively. "It will get there, and back. I'm more than willing tostake my own life on that. But you—" 

"Good. I'll take your word for it, Jack, with the test flight to back it up.
How about it, Erin?" He swung to his rival, some of the old arrogance in hisvoice. "Maybe I'd be glory-hogging, but I understand you're in the market fora pilot, like to see my letters of reference?" 

Strength flowed back into Erin's legs, and he came to his feet with a smile,
his hand outstretched. "I think you'll prove entirely satisfactory, Greg." Ithad been too sudden for any of them to realize fully, but one of thephotographers sensed the dramatic, and his flashbulb flared whitely. Theothers were not slow in following suit. 

"When?" a reporter asked. "Expect to be ready in the near future?" 

"Why not now? The time's about right, and my affairs are in order. Iseverything ready here?" Judging from their looks that it was, Stewart tookover authority with the ease of old habit. "All right, who's coming? A woman?
How about you, Jack?" 

Jack's voice was brisk, but the cold had thawed from it. "Count me in, Dad.
I'm amateur copilot." 

"Me, I think I go too," Dutch Bauer decided. "Maybe then I can build betterwhen I come back." 

Erin counted them, and rechecked. "But that's nine," he demurred. "The ship isdesigned for eight." 

Tom Shaw corrected him. "It's only eight, Erin. I've decided to let Jimmycarry on the family tradition. Shall we stay here and watch them take-off?" 

There was a mad rush for the few personal belongings that were to go, and achorus of hasty good-byes. Then they were gone, the reporters with them, andthe two men stood quietly studying each other. Erin smiled at his foreman, anunexpected mist in his eyes. "Thanks, Tom. You needn't have done that." 

"One in the family's enough. Besides, Dutch wanted to go." His voice was gruffas he steadied Erin to the door and stood looking out at the mob around thespaceship. The reporters were busy, getting last words, taking pictures, andthe Chinese laborers were clustered around Wah, saying their own adieus. ThenGreg's heavy roar came up, and they tumbled back away from the ship, while themen who were to go filed in. The great port closed slowly and the first fainttrial jets blasted out. 

Confidence seemed to flow into the tubes, and they whistled and bellowedhappily, twisting the ship and sending her out over the water in amoonsilvered path. Erin saw for the first time the fierce power that lay inher as she dropped all normal bounds and went forward in a headlong rush.
Stewart was lifting her rather soon, but she took it and was off. 

They followed the faint streak she made in the air until it was invisible, anda hum from the speaker sent Shaw to the radio. Greg's voice came through. 


"Sweet ship, Erin, if you hear me. I'll send you a copy of Gunga Dhin fromMars. Be seeing you." 

Erin stayed in the doorway, watching the stars that looked down 

from the point where the Santa Maria had vanished. 'Tom," he said at 

last, "I wish you'd take my Bible and turn to the last chapter of 

Deuteronomy. You'll know what I mean." 

A minute later Shaw's precise reading voice reached him. "'And 

the Lord said unto Moses, This is the land which I sware unto Abraham, untoIsaac, and unto Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy seed: I have causedthee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither.'" 

"At least I have seen it, Tom; the stars look different up there." Erin tookone final look and turned back into the room. "Until the reporters come backhere, how about a game of rummy?" 

Campbell accepted the story and paid a bonus on it, though he failed somehowto notice that I was a great action writer. At least no note from himacknowledged the fact. But I was delighted to find, when it finally came out,
long after it was bought, that it had a most beautiful cover painting byHubert Rogers. Somehow, having a story illustrated on the cover of a magazinewas very sweet to us newer writers in those days. 

It wasn't the first cover I'd had, to be truthful. "The Luck of Ignatz" hadalso been a cover story. But that was such a bad one that I couldn't quiteaccept it. It was by Virgil Finlay, too, who was one of my favorite artists uptill then. It wasn't until I met Finlay, thirty years later, that I learnedwhy it was so bad. He drew most of his art the same size as it would be whenreproduced, rather than two or three times as large. But the art director haddecided that only a small comer of the painting should be used, for someidiotic reason. So that little area was blown up to many times the size itshould have been —and naturally, it couldn't stand the enlargement for whichit had never been intended. 

I guess I cherished "The Stars Look Down" (the title was original, I thought,
until I learned that A. J. Cronin had used it for a book) for years because Ithought I'd proved my ability to handle action with it. I included it in myfirst hard-covered collection in 1947 as one of my best. But much time haspassed, I've since done a great deal of real action writing as well as sciencefiction, and I wish now that I'd written it as I meant to originally. 

It was supposed to be a conflict of ideology between the two men, without allthe melodramatics. It should have been. And I wanted to show that the usual 
science fiction idea of two men building a spaceship in a few months was utterrubbish. Engineering such projects must take many years, a lot of money, and alarge crew of men. (We hadn't yet learned that only governments could fundthem.) Some of that remains in the story, but without sufficient emphasis. 

Also, if I'd been busier thinking instead of trying to prove a needless point,
I might have avoided a stupid error in science. I knew perfectly well thatthere is no feeling of gravity inside a ship falling freely in space. But hereI have them with the rockets off talking about weighing a quarter as much as 


on the surface of Earth! I guess that mistake had been in so many stories thatit had become accepted science fiction. Campbell knew his physics very well,
but he didn't catch the error, and no reader complained. I wonder why. 

I also wonder why I did such a bad cliche* portrait of the Chinese cook. Iknew better, since a couple of my friends in college were Chinese. All I canguess is that Henry in the back of my mind must have been getting even for myoverworking him by spewing out the banal junk^from all the bad stories in hisfiles. 

By now, I'd been writing fiction fairly steadily for seven months in 1939, andnot doing too badly at it. I'd made more than a hundred dollars a month, whichwasn't a bad income for me in those days. I could probably have gone on andestablished a fair reputation and been able to call myself a professional. ButI wasn't ready for that kind of prosperity, and I still wasn't thinking ofwriting as anything more than a pleasant interlude. 

The end to my zeal for fiction came when I happened to find a real bargain ina camera store. It was a lovely little camera, a sort of fake reflex with agood f 14.5 lens, but without a focusing viewing lens— which I didn't need,
anyhow, since I knew how to focus. I'd learned my photography before anyonethought of range finders and exposure meters. There are tricks for estimatingdistance very closely and for measuring the true light with only one's eyes,
as I have proved at times to those who claim it can't be done. So I bought thecamera and assorted darkroom chemicals and equipment and went home, planninghow I'd turn my closet into a darkroom and build an en-larger that would usethe lens of the camera. 

Since the closet was only about two feet deep and four feet wide, thatinvolved a great deal of planning to leave me enough room between the enlargerand the developing trays for my body. But it all worked out, as did thehomemade enlarger. And then, of course, I had to use all the stuff I'd spentmy time on. 

I take miserable pictures—technically excellent but totally uninteresting. ButI am a good darkroom worker, and I have a pretty fair knowledge ofphotochemistry. And there were wonderful new developers, papers, and all kindsof things that had been put on the 

market since my last experience with photography. All of that happened to beexpensive, too. 

So I went about making it pay for itself, which is fairly simple in any hobby,
if a man thinks about it. In those days, almost every parent had a favoritephoto of a child taken on one of the automatic machines in the five-and-dimes.
Kids always looked better in those little pictures, somehow. And the picturesthemselves were often very sharp and capable of considerable enlargement 

So I went out looking. I could take one of the pictures, copy it onto film,
and then enlarge it up to 8 by 10 on a nice heavy portrait paper with an ivorytint instead of unflattering white. Then I could sepia tone the blacks. Afterthat, the picture could be colored easily with transparent colors, and itwould look remarkably good. A lot of people were willing to pay ten dollarsfor one such enlargement plus a few smaller uncolored prints. And the wholeoperation took maybe a couple of hours and cost about half a dollar forsupplies. 


Then there were all kinds of experiments. I had to leam how to process filmwell in a darkroom that often reached a temperature of a hundred degrees, forinstance. Life was full of fun and challenge again. 

I did remind myself that I was supposed to be writing. I was still bugged bymy difficulty in selling to Unknown, too. So I finally tore myself out of thedarkroom and back to the typewriter. The first story was something about afortune-teller and how her prediction came true "by coincidence, of course"—
named "Coincidence," and stretched out somehow to 5,000 words. Campbellbounced it with a little note that said: "We take prediction for granted inUnknown. And why don't you give up your gimmick stories when they have nocharacters in them?" Looking it over, I began to see what he meant. 

So I sat down and deliberately came up with a character. That isn't normallythe way I write. I begin with an idea of some kind, and gradually build up aseries of events around it to form a plot. The character of any central figurein the story evolves somehow by itself as the story gets developed and as Icome to know him. How it happens, I don't know; but I get acquainted with thepeople in my stories in the same way I learn to know real people—by watchingwhat they do. In this case, character was to come first, before plotting. 

So I picked a characteristic and created a character from that. He was areporter who was always late. One day he was late getting to interview amobster and was killed along with the gangster. But he 

did even better. He managed to be late for the wagon that picks up souls, sohe got stranded here as a ghost. And so on. I called it "The Late Henry Smith"
with great cleverness, and it wrote fairly easily to 6,000 words. It came backwith a very short note from Campbell: "I said characters, del Key, notcharacter tricks." And that was my last try at creating character in a vacuum.
From then on, I let them grow by themselves. 

By then, photography was moving along fairly well, and fiction obviouslywasn't moving at all. 

When I look through the profile written about me—which is probably thestandard source of information about me in most libraries— I find that from 
this period on, for a couple of years at least, I was despondent andfrustrated, wanting to write but somehow unable. It's probably a good guess asto the mood of anyone who seriously wants to be a writer, but I can't rememberanything like that happening to me. Years later, when I ran into a prolongedwriter's block (where nothing goes well, and every word looks worse than theone before, until you can't write even a note to the milkman), I suppose Ishould have felt that way; I was calling myself a full-time writer by then.
But somehow, the despondency never came, except at those rare times when I hadto write some short piece. Somehow, there were always too many other thingsthat I wanted to do to worry about the block, which would eventually wearitself out. And during the period beginning in 1939, I had no trouble sellinga fair amount of what I wrote. I was just too wrapped up in other things tobother with fiction. 

In fact, during this period when I was writing almost nothing for Campbell, Idid get in a bind where I needed a lot of money in a hurry. I solved it bywriting confession stories. They paid much better than science fiction, wereeasier to do, and the magazine bought every story of that type I wrote. Butonce I had the money I needed, I went happily back to whatever I was doing andnever wrote another confession story. 


Campbell sent me a couple of ideas during the next month or so, but I returnedthem to him. Then he sent one that did look attractive. Apparently my"Coppersmith" had been very well liked, and the readers were asking for asequel. One reader who collected information about myths and folklore had evenmade a suggestion. This was a gentleman named James Beard, with whom both TedSturgeon and I later collaborated. 

I had never tried a sequel before. Somehow, when I was finished 

with a story, I never felt like going back and trying to use the samecharacters or background again. But this time, the idea seemed interesting,
and I felt it was about time I had at least one sequel to my credit. So thelittle elf, Ellowan Coppersmith, was resurrected for another 6,400 words in astory called "Doubled in Brass." 

7. Doubled in Brass 
(by Lester del Key) 

Ellowan Coppersmith stopped outside the building and inspected the sign withmore than faint pleasure. It was a new one, gleaming copper letters on a blackbackground catching the first rays of the sun, and showing up clearly againstthe newly painted walls. It read: 

DONAHUE & COPPERSMITH 

Blacksmithing—Auto Repairs All Work in Copper: 

RADIATORS A SPECIALTY 

To be sure, it was not his idea to join Michael Donahue in partnership, butthe smith had insisted when the shop was remodeled, and the elf's protests hadnot been too loud. Now that the sign was up, he found the sight a pleasantone. But there was work to be done, as usual, and Ellowan was not one to wastehis time. He unlocked the shop and went back to his workroom, the little bellson his shoes tinkling in time to his whistling. , 

"Eh, now," he chuckled at the sight of the radiators waiting his work. "It's afortune we'll be making yet, and never the need of hunting my work. I'll bewanting no more than to stay here." 

The elf picked up the first radiator and placed it in the clamps on hisworktable, arranged his charcoal brazier and cunning little tools, and raisedhis three-foot body up onto the stool. Things had indeed changed since the daywhen he awoke in the hills where his people had retired in sleep to escape thepoisonous fumes of coal. He had found that there was little use for his skillin copper and brass; the 

people no longer used copper utensils, and it had been hard with him until hedrifted into this town and found the smithy. 

Michael Donahue had given him a copper radiator to mend, and the excellence ofhis work had suggested a permanent job working on the brass and copper partsof the autos and making little ornaments for the radiator caps. And though thefumes of the autos were as bad as the coal smoke which had poisoned hispeople, he had found pleasure in the thought that someday all the coal and gas 


must be used up, and his people could once more come out into the world. 

As his skill had become known, more work was found. Donahue bought oldradiators, Ellowan mended them better than their original, and they resoldthem for an excellent profit. Now the shop had been repaired, and the elf hada workroom to himself. His old clothes had given place to a modern style ofdress, except for the little turned-up sandals with their copper bells; modernshoes hurt his feet. And the people of the town had become used to him, andaccepted him as merely a pleasant little midget who did unusually fine work. 

Under his hands, the twisted shell of the radiator which had been smashed inan accident became whole again. His little tools straightened the fins, andthe marvelous flux and solder he used made the tubes watertight once more,
until it was gleaming and perfect. He set it aside, and the bright glow of hisbrazier sank instantly into blackness as its work was done. The clock, whosehands pointed at seven, indicated it was breakfast time, and his cereal andmilk would be waiting in the little lunchroom down the street. 

Ellowan was coming from his own workroom to the smithy when he saw thebattered little car drive up. A red-headed young man one size too large forthe car climbed out. His face was pleasant and open, and he wore a wide smile,
but still managed to convey the impression that whatever he had to do left himhighly uncomfortable. 

"Is Mr. Donahue here?" he asked of the elf. 

"That Donahue is not. He'll not be coming in until the hour of eight." Ellowanstudied the other and decided he liked what he saw. "And you should be the oneto know that, too, Patrick." 

"So you recognize me? I suppose you're Ellowan Coppersmith that my fatherwrote me about?" 

"Aye, I'm Ellowan. Eh, now, it's thinking I was that you'd be at the collegestudying to be the great engineer." 

"Uh-huh." The grin was distinctly sheepish now. "I couldn't stand 

the math. As an engineer, I'm a fine machinist, and that's all; so they toldme I could come home. Now I'll have to face the music and tell Dad what 
happened to his plans." 

"Eh, so? Now that's a shame, indeed, but not one that a good breakfast won'tmake better." Ellowan locked the shop carefully and started down the street,
his short, stubby hand plucking at the boy. "A man takes things best at hiswork, and your father isn't the one to spoil a good rule. It's hungry you mustbe after the night of driving, and a pretty waitress to serve the food will doyou no harm." 

Patrick fell in behind. His face was incapable of looking anything but good-
natured, nor could his worry ruin his appetite. But the waitress failed todraw more than a casual glance from him. The elf watched him carefully forsigns of the normal male curiosity, then searched through his memory ofDonahue's conversations for some clue. 

His brown eyes twinkled as he found it, and his rough bronzed skin crinkled upuntil his beard threatened to stand out straight before him. "Now I'm minded 


that young men have a habit of not coming home when there's trouble they'rein," he said calmly. "And it's not the like of what you'd do except for goodreason, when there's work to be found at all. Now who might the girl be,
Patrick?" 

"People call me Pat, Ellowan." He took three times too long in eating the foodon his fork, then answered indirectly. "I heard that Mary Kroning was seeingquite a lot of young Wilson. I don't like him, and—well, I do like her. Knowthem?" 

"Eh, that I do. A sweet lass, and a pretty one. It's a shame, to be sure, thather father can work no more from the stroke that he had. And Hubert Wilson has 
the money, though I'm not saying he's the man for the girl. It's nothing buttrouble we've had since his car came to the shop for our work." 

Pat nodded heavy agreement. "Wilson's a swine, and looks lifce one." 

"That may be. But I'd not be telling the girl of that," the elf advised. Hecounted out the price of the breakfast and carefully left the proper tip forthe waitress. It had taken time, but he had finally learned that money wasmuch cheaper than that he had used a hundred and twenty years before. Thenthey headed back to the shop, and the elf returned to his workbench. 

But this time he did not glance at the radiators, nor did the little brazierglow brightly as he sat down. Ellowan liked the smith for his broad commonsense and good-humored fellowship, and he owed 

him gratitude for the work and the partnership. From what he had seen, heliked the boy as well—certainly better than the greasy superiority of HubertWilson. 

Eh, well, there was only one answer. Pat must win Mary, and to keep her, hemust secure work from which he was sure of a good living. The elf chuckledsuddenly, and dropped down to go over to his bag that still hung on the wallof the smithy. From within it, he produced an ingot of brass that had retainedits luster through the years of his sleep, and sped back into his workshop. 

There were new tools there, in addition to the old ones he had carried, toolsthat he polished and cared for as if they were living things. Now he switchedon the motor and inserted the brass bar into a small lathe, working it deftlyinto the rough shape he desired. Always to Ju'm, the turning lathe partook ofmagic, though he understood the mechanical principles well enough. But thatmen should make metal serve them so easily was in itself magic, and good magicthat he did not hesitate to use. 

Satisfied with the rough form, he climbed back on the stool and began cuttingand scraping with his instruments, breaking the bar apart in the middle tomake two identical pieces. Donahue came into the smithy as he worked, and hecould hear the mutter of voices after the first surprised exclamation. Hissharp ears made out most of their speech, but it was the same in nature aswhat Pat had told him, and he went on with his work, paying them littleattention. The metal was shaping up beautifully. 

Again he put them on the lathe, shaping up the base of the figurines andcutting threads on them. Completed, they were little statues, a few incheshigh, molded above a conventional radiator cap. But they were unusual inlacking the conventional streamline greyhound or bird; instead they carried 


small replicas of Ellowan himself, as he had looked in the old jerkin andtights when he first came to town, and the eyes seemed to twinkle back at him.
He chuckled. 

"It's neat copies you are, if I do say it myself, and it's good material youhave in you. I'm thinking there were never yet better ornaments —nor moreuseful," he told them. "Almost I'm sorry to silver the one of you." 

Donahue and Pat came into the room as he finished the silvering. "The boy'sstaying with us for the time," Donahue informed the elf. "But I'll not bemoving you; he's taking the guest room until he finds a job. When might you bedone with the Wilson car?" 

Ellowan was unscrewing the old cap and putting the silvered copy 

of himself in its place. "Finished it is now, all new wires. And a free capI'll give him for the money it costs." He looked at the ornament in place andnodded, well pleased. Surely Hubert Wilson would like it. It was novel andshiny enough to please his love of display. 

Pat examined the copper one thoughtfully. "You're an artist, Ellowan. But Iprefer this to the other; the color suits you better, and I think the face ismore cheerful. Who's this for?" 

"Who but yourself, lad? There's never a bright spot on the car that you drive,
and this will serve, I'm thinking." 

"And more than he deserves," Donahue said. "Now be off, you young fool, anddon't bother honest men at their labors. There's food in the icebox, and yourcredit will be good at the store. Since it's loafing you'll be, loaf at home."
When Pat had gone, he winked at Ellowan and grinned. 

"Now there's a boy for you, Coppersmith. And it's glad I am that he'll bewasting no more time at school. Foosh! 'Twas time and money wasted, that itwas." The ways of a father and son change little with the passing of time. 

Ellowan nodded silently and went back to his work, while Donahue stepped intothe smithy and began hammering out iron on the anvil. If a man had work, therewas little more he needed, save a wife for the young and a son for the old. 

The moon was full and the air was cool and sweet. Ellowan sat on the back 
porch with Donahue, each smoking thoughtfully and saying little. Out in thegarden there was a sudden rustling sound, then a faint plop-plop on the grassbefore them. The smith looked down. 

"More rabbits," he said. "Now where would they all be coming from, this nearthe town? Shool Go along with you! I'd have no rabbits eating my vegetables." 

The rabbits looked up at him, and one of them thumped a hind leg nervously onthe ground, but they refused to move. Ellowan caught Donahue's arm as hestarted to rise. "They'll not harm the garden." He made a little cluckingsound in his throat and the rabbits drew closer. "It's to see me they've come,
and there's not a leaf of the place they'll touch, except such weeds as theylike." 

"Friends of yours?" 


"Now that they are, as you should know. Haven't the Little People and rabbitsbeen friends since they hid together in the same burrows from the giants? ButI'll send them away and let you say the words you'd be thinking." Again hemade the clucking sounds, and the rabbits kicked out a little thudding choruson the grass, then 

turned and hopped peacefully away—all except one that went out into the yardto examine some weeds that looked edible. 

Donahue watched it for a few minutes, then turned back to the elf. "I'm sonyfor the boy. His heart's set on the girl, but it's only right that she'd bethinking of her father needing care and the mother with hardly enough to liveon. And money comes hard to a young man here. Never a chance does he have." 

"Eh, so; but there's many a girl who thinks of money but doesn't choose it.
I'd not be worrying about the boy." The elf picked up a package at his feetand brought out three small articles that looked like dust filters to be wornover the nose. "What might ozone be?" 

"Eh? Oh, ozone. Have you smelled the air close to the big electric motor?
Well, that'll be the stuff. Why, now?" 

"I bouglit these at the drugstore and the clerk was telling me they settledthe dust, cleaned the air, and gave off ozone. See, there's a battery that'sto be worn on the waist, and a wire to run to the thing. Do you think it mightmake bad air good?" 

"It might that. But precious little ozone you'll get from those batteries,
though some there might be. I've seen the like of it used for hay fever." 

"Aye. That he told me. And that there were big machines to make more of it foran office. I was for trying it on, and he let me. 'Tis a wonderful invention,
I'm thinking." 

"Maybe." The smith rose, stretching his big frame. "Though there's moreinterest in bed, to be sure, that I have. A good night to you." He turned intothe house. 

Ellowan whistled softly, and two rabbits stuck their heads out of the bushesand came closer. 

"Now, maybe you'd like a ride?" he asked them, and listened to the thudding oftheir feet. "So? Then come along." He headed for a shed, their little bodiesfollowing quietly. For a second he disappeared, while they waited patiently,
to come out with a small-framed bicycle. Since the time when a boy had carriedhim into the town on a wheel, the elf had been fascinated with such an easyway of traveling, and his first money had gone into the purchase of one, builtspecially to fit him, and equipped with a three-speed device. 

He put his bundle into the basket and picked up the rabbits. They werefamiliar with such rides and made no protest as he put them beside the bundle.
He chuckled. "Now, it's a longer ride you'll get this night. I've five hoursbefore the boy'll be coming home, or he's 

not what I'm thinking, and there's more than a little road to be covered inthat time." 


They flattened out, little noses quivering with excitement, and he mountedquickly. There were strong muscles in his corded short legs, and the speedthat he made would have surprised the boys who saw him riding only around thetown. The road slipped by him smoothly and silently, his faint whistlingbroken only by a few muttered words. "And they'll be filling the air withpoison when there's the like of this to be ridden. Eh, well." 

Ellowan's guess as to the time of Pat's return was a shrewd one. The littleelf had barely put his bicycle away and turned the rabbits loose when thebattered car came chugging along. He settled back on a seat and watched theauto, paying no attention to the rabbits that scampered back and forth acrossthe driveway. 

Nor did Pat; his thoughts were not on the driving, and his eyes were onlyfocused enough to enable him to reach the garage. Sure of the elf'sprotection, the rabbits gave no more thought to the car than the man did tothem. 

Since no one else bothered, the car seemed to take matters into its own hands.
A rabbit sat placidly chewing a leaf until the wheels were within a few feetof it. The little car jerked, bucked sideways, and left the driveway for thelawn, only to run toward another squatting there. Again it bucked, seemed toconsider, and found no opening. The motor roared, and it darted forward,
straight toward the animal. Then the wheels left the ground abruptly, frontfirst, followed by the rear, and the auto headed for the garage, leaving therabbit eating steadily where he had first been. 

Ellowan chuckled as Pat came out of the garage, swearing under his breath. "
'Tis a pleasant car you have, methinks," the elf observed. 

"Must have hit a rock somewhere. I thought sure I'd hit one of those sillyanimals, but it seems I didn't." Pat pulled at one ear and stared back at thegarage. "I've had trouble with the car all evening. First it backfired; almostseemed to pick the times when Mary and I started to quarrel. Then it stoppedout in the country, and I couldn't start it for an hour." 

"Now it's little trouble I'd call that. Was she minding the stop?" 

"Well," the boy admitted, "she didn't seem to. But it's no go, lillowan. Sheeven told me she wished I'd never come back." 

"Eh, so? Now there are many reasons she could have for that, indeed. When agirl likes a boy, and there's money she needs that he'll 

not be having, perchance she'd welcome him less because of the liking shehas." The elf smiled at some joke of his own. 

Pat nodded slowly. "Maybe you're right, at that. But money doesn't grow ontrees." 

"It depends on the man who owns the tree. There's a wonderful demand forornaments of brass, wrought by true craftsmen. I'd a letter from a man who'dbeen seeing some of the work I do, and it was wanting me to make more for histrade, and at good prices, too. Now, if you were to start a small factory forthe making of hinges and doorknobs, ashtrays and fruit bowls, there'd be moneyfor you." "Uh-huh. I thought of that when I saw your radiator cap. But ittakes money to start, and workmen in brass are rare. I'd need money, some 


machinery, a building, and men—even if you know of a market. That's a tallorder." 

"Mayhap. Don't be worrying your head with it, lad. The sleep's more neededthan the money. And I'll be getting a bit myself." Ellowan nodded good nightas they passed inside and turned to his own room, still chuckling over theaction of the car. Eh, now, that was good brass in the ornament, and unusual,
too. 

It was another night, and the elf had finished supper and gone to his ownroom. From a bureau drawer he drew out a handful of thin sticks and tossed 
them on the floor, studying them thoughtfully until they made sense to him.
"Now, they're not the equal in prediction to the future itself, but they seemsure enough," he muttered. "And the boy's been telling me his Mary was seeingthe Wilson pup this night. I'm thinking a ride might do me no harm." 

He pocketed the runes, hoping their information might be accurate, as itsometimes was, and went out to his bicycle, tossing a small bag in the basket.
Rabbits hopped around, thumping out their desire to go with him, but he shooedthem off and set out alone. He slipped out of the town in short order, and outthrough the pleasant moonlit country around, until he came to a little windinglane that led back through a wooded section. There was a tiny clearing a wayfarther on, and tire marks on the dirt indicated that it was not unknown tothe boys of the town. 

Ellowan turned back into the woods, some distance below the clearing, andconcealed his wheel. From the bag he pulled out a large cloth and tied itabout his face, over his nose. Then he whistled shrilly, and sat down to waituntil the rabbits could respond, studying the runes again. Satisfied withthem, he looked up at the circle of 

gray bodies and bright eyes around him. Little muttered words came to hislips, while the noses of the rabbits twitched excitedly. 

They started off obediently, if somewhat reluctantly, each going in adirection slightly different from the others. There was another wait beforetwo returned. Then he whistled the others to cease and followed the first 
rabbit, the second hopping along behind. They passed through most of the woodsbefore they reached their objective. 

A small animal with a bushy tail was sedately looking under a log for insects,
and the stripes along its back identified it clearly. Ellowan mutteredunhappily, and the rabbits refused to go farther. The elf sidled incautiously, careful not to make a hostile move, and began dropping the foodfrom the bag to the ground, making a trail back toward the clearing. Watchinghim carefully, the skunk moved over and investigated the line of food, movingalong slowly, in no haste to go anywhere. 

The second rabbit led off a short distance to another skunk, and the processwas repeated until both trails joined and were connected to the clearing.
There the elf scattered the remainder of the bag's contents and movedhurriedly away, seeking a position upwind from the spot, but well within rangeof his sharp eyes and ears. 

He felt nauseated and cursed his own dumbness for being unable to plan abetter scheme. "Aghh!" he grunted. "It's bad enough the fumes of coal may be,
but this smell is worse. If I'd not met one once before, I'd never believe 


there'd be such beasts. In that, the Old Country is better than the new. Ehu!" 

The wait was longer this time, and the moon crept up until its light shonefull on the clearing. Ellowan tossed the runes again, but they were still inthe same pattern, and he muttered. Three times should be proof enough, buttheir prediction had still not come true. Then the faint sound of a car camefrom down the lane, and he watched tensely until it appeared. 

It was the right one, with the little silvered figure shining on the top ofthe radiator. A low, heavy convertible it was, chosen with the obvious badtaste and love of display that were typical of the Wilsons, but money ingoodly quantity had gone into its purchase. Inside, the elf made out the fat,
smirking face of Hubert Wilson, and the troubled face of Mary Kroning. 

Wilson swung it up in a rush, braked sharply where the wheel marks werethickest, gunned the motor, and cut it off. Out of the car came words inWilson's pompous voice. 

"Runs pretty sweet now. But the way Donahue fixes cars, I suppose it'll go topieces again in a week. Charged me sixty bucks for the work, and probablypalmed off the shoddiest material he could find. I told him so, too." 

Mary's weak protest sounded tired and Ellowan guessed that there had beenlittle sleep for her the night before. "I don't think Mr. Donahue would dothat to you. He's always been very careful in the work he did for us, and hisprices are lower than we can get elsewhere." 

"Sure, why wouldn't they be when it's the only way he can get work? Anyway,
he's crazy enough to think you'll marry that dumb son of his." Wilson movedslightly on the seat and Mary drew back into a corner. "And that reminds me; Iheard you were out with him last night, and I don't like it. Probably got introuble and kicked out of college, so he comes sneaking back here to hisfather. You keep away from him, understand? I don't want my girl going withsuch people." 

"He's not dumb, and he didn't get in trouble. I think—" She checked the wordsquickly and deliberately softened her voice. "I'm not engaged to you yet,
Hubert, and I don't think you should try to dictate my choice of friends. I'veknown Pat for years. Why shouldn't I see him when he returns?" 

"Because I don't like it and won't have it! I used to think you were sweet onhim, but thaf s all done. Anyway, he couldn't take you to the movies now, eventhe cheap ones. His old man's spent most of his money fixing up the shop andjust paid back the loan from our bank." 

"Let's not argue, Hubert. I'm tired, too tired for another quarrel. I wishyou'd take me home." 

"Aw, it's only eleven. Stay here a little while and we'll go over to the BrownPudding Inn. It's the most expensive place around, and they've got anorchestra that's really hot!" 

"I'm tired, Hubert, and I don't want to go to the inn. I've been looking forwork all day. Take me home and I'll see you tomorrow and let you take me tothe inn if you want." 

"If that's the way you feel." He straightened up slowly, a petulant frown on 


his face. "Anyway, I told you you didn't need work; 111 send your dad to thehospital and take care of you if you'll promise to marry me. Oh, all right.
But why don't you let me get you a job in the bank? All I gotta do is say theword and you're hired." 

Ellowan saw that Wilson was making slow signs of giving in and 

leaving, and he decided it was time to act. The big rabbit at his feet thumpedheavily at his orders, then loyalty conquered instinct, and it moved off. Asit left, the elf saw two pairs of eyes shining in the underbrush, and theskunks poked sharp little heads through to gaze at the quantity of food nearerthe car. They moved forward slowly, uncertain of the auto, but fairlyconfident of their natural protection. 

Wilson was grabbing for the brake when the rabbit scampered out of the woodsinto the clearing and headed for the car. With a bound, it hopped to therunning board, jumped from there to the hood of the engine, and cleared thewindshield to land in Wilson's lap. His clawing hands missed it, and it was inthe back seat, leaving a streak of mud on the newly laundered suit and ascratch from a sharp toe-nail on his forehead. The words he said were ones nolady should hear from a man. 

Again it bounced, landing on his head, then thumping down on the hood again.
Wilson sprawled out, diving for it, and the rabbit hit the ground and begancircling the man, just out of reach. "Get out of that car and help me catchthis thing!" he shouted at Mary. "For the love of Peter, don't sit there likea bump on a log! Aren't there any brains under your hair?" 

"Leave it alone and come back to the car. You can't catch it, and I want to goback." 

"I don't care what you want; I'll fix this fellow." He stopped his franticattempts and climbed back in the car. "Maybe I can't catch it, but we'll seewhat the car can do." 

Ellowan's eyes turned back to the skunks, moving along toward the manna fromheaven they saw and smelled in the clearing. They knew perfectly well that theinsane hoppings of the rabbit were harmless, and took no notice of them. 

Wilson gunned the motor and threw the machine into second^ savagely. It jerkedforward, straight at the rabbit—and straight for the skunks. This was a newmenace to them, and they jerked their heads up and erected the danger signalof their tails. Wilson did not ice them, nor did he notice a sudden change inthe radiator cap. The two brass hands were creeping slowly up over the littlenose. 

The car bucked and backfired, and the wheels seemed filled with life, tryingto drag the car to the right. The gear lever suddenly shifted to neutral andthe car stopped. Alert and poised for action, the ikunks were waiting on ahair-trigger balance; the rabbit decided it was time to leave. 

But now Wilson's anger was transferred to the car, and he fought it fiercely,
jamming it back into gear. It backfired again, and the skunks decided they hadwaited long enough. With a unison of action that seemed preplanned, theyopened fire and the wind favored them. Mary took her frightened eyes offWilson and tried to hide her nose from the stench. Wilson let go of the wheel,
and his face turned pale and sick. 


But the car, left without a guiding hand, took matters onto itself. The frontend jumped up and twisted around, and the machine bobbed in a crazy circle,
streaking away from the skunks. It slowed and the engine sputtered andcoughed, then seemed to decide things could be no worse than they were, andstopped. 

Wilson opened his mouth and spilled out words, first at the car, then at Mary.
She bore it in stolid silence for a few minutes, but there are limits to allthings, even the need of money. Ellowan grinned as she reached for the doorand climbed out, turning down the lane toward the general highway and leavingyoung Wilson ranting to himself. 

Then a vagary of the wind let a few whiffs of the air from the clearing reachthe elf, and he ran back toward his bicycle. His work was done, and it was anexcellent time to leave. 

Business in the smithy was slack the next day, and Donahue was across thestreet, playing billiards, when Pat came into the shop in the early afternoon,
looking much more cheerful than previously. "Mary's given up Wilson," heannounced, as he might have spoken of discovering perpetual motion. "Shecalled me up this morning, and we've been talking things over since then. Idon't know what happened, but she's through with him." 

"Eh, now, and it's glad I am to hear that." Ellowan dropped his work andsquatted on a bench across from the boy, wondering how well she had ridherself of the smell of skunk. "And did she tell you she'd be marrying you?" 

Some of the joy went out of Pat's face. "No, but she practically did. I've gotto get a job, though, paying enough to support her and help the family along.
She'll probably find work for a while, and it won't take so terribly much.
They've almost enough to live on. But I'll need at least twice as much as Ican make here." 

"There'd be money in the selling of handmade brass trinkets," the elf pointedout again. "A very good sum, indeed, and immediately. Now, I've been doingsome work with figures, and I'm thinking you'd be making more than you need,
and could pay back the expense of 

the shop in little time, if your craftsmen knew the knack of the material." 

"I figured it up too, from the letter you got giving prices, and there's agold mine in it for a plant with a few workers. But where can I get men whocan do the type of work you turn out? That's where the money is. And wherewould I get the initial outlay?" 

"All in good time now." Ellowan filled his pipe and puffed at it thoughtfully.
"It seems that the Wilsons have arrived as they telephoned. A bit of businessand we'll talk this over afterwards, lad." 

The Wilsons had indeed arrived, Hubert's car in front, driven by thechauffeur, and the banker driving his own car at a good distance off. HubertWilson stood on the front bumper of his auto, looking more miserable thanseemed possible; his hand rested on the silvered radiator cap, and his thumbwas caught between the little brass arms. The boys along the street addednothing to his comfort. 


The older Wilson came bristling in, growling gruff words. "I'll slap a suit onyou that'll make your ears ring," he threatened. "Hubert's caught in thatthing you made, and can't get loose, unless we amputate his thumb. The metalsimply can't be cut, for some reason." 

"That suit now," the elf answered. "It might not help the thumb, and there'slittle fault I have in the matter. Tis his own carelessness. You should know 
that." 

Since bluffing didn't work, Wilson tried the only other argument he knew. "Allright, but get him loose. I'll give you fifty dollars for it and forget thewhole thing." 

Ellowan demurred. "There's a most unpleasant odor about the car," he pointedout. "I'm overly sensitive to such an odor, and there's fear in my heart thatit might be poisonous to me. But if you'll come into the garage, I'll be gladindeed to talk of the matter with you." 

Back in the building, the banker stormed and ranted, but it did him no good.
The quiet words of the elf, inaudible to Pat, conquered In the end. "And I'llhave it in cash, you understand," he finished. "I'm not used to these checks,
nor liking of them." 

Wilson looked through the window at the sight of his son caught In thathumiliating position and gave in. "Robbed" he growled. "I'll send a boy withit, and to fetch your note." He stalked out of the shop quickly, climbed intohis car, and drove off toward the bank. 

Ellowan waited until the boy showed up, and exchanged a package for a piece ofpaper from the elf. Then he wrapped his face in moist cloths and took histools out where Hubert Wilson stood. With 

a direction of purpose that gave no heed to the swearing and pleading of theman, he applied his little pinchers and pulled the arms loose from the thumb;
the brass responded easily to his tug. 

"And now," he said, unscrewing the cap and substituting one with a greyhoundon it, "you'd best be off. We'll not be wanting your trade hereafter." Heswung quickly into the shop, unmindful of the retort that reached his ears,
and watched the car pull away. When the sickness from the stench left him, heturned back to Pat 

"Now as I was saying, there's money in copper artistry. And there's a buildingdown the street that'll be lending itself perfectly to the work. It's quitecheap you could get it. As for the tools you'd need, they'd be few, sincehandwork is better for this than the cleverness of many machines." 

"It would take at least three thousand dollars to start, and I'd have to getworkers and pay them." Pat shook his head sadly. "Better forget it, Ellowan." 

"Eh, so? And if s mistaken you are. In this pile you'll find the sum of fivethousand of your dollars, which should start the shop and let you marry thegirl when she will." He tossed the package over casually. 

Pat grinned, but shoved it back. "So you blackmailed Wilson, did you? That's ahigh price for letting the youngster loose." 


"It's not too high, I'm thinking, since it's but a loan. You'll be paying me,
and I'll give it to him—with five percent interest, to be sure. And perhapsyou'd turn up your nose at a chance to marry the girl when it's only abusiness agreement?" 

Pat pocketed the money. "That way, I'll take it, provided you let me pay youat six percent. How long does your note run?" 

"Five years, and you'll pay me but five percent, as I pay the banker. I'mtired indeed of the arguing you'd be doing." Ellowan turned back to hisworkroom. "Now it's workers you need, eh?" 

"And it's workers I won't find, probably. Where can brass craftsmen be foundwho can do any amount of work by hand?" 

The elf grinned and disappeared into the shop. He whistled once andreappeared, but not alone. Behind him were three others like him, differingbut little, and all clearly of the Little People. They were dressed in brownleather clothes of a cut older than the mechanical age, but about their noseswere filters with wires leading down to little batteries at their belts.
Ellowan chuckled. 

"Here, now, are the workers I brought back for you," he told Pat. "You'll findthem quick with their hands and good workers, not greedy for money. But you'llbe needing one of those machines 

that'd make ozone for the whole shop—only a little, but enough to counteractthe poison of the air. 'Tis a marvelous invention. Now be off with you, andleave me with my friends. I'd have none of your thanks." 

As Pat went out, shaking his head but smiling, the four elves turned back tothe workroom, and Ellowan knew his task was well done. The boy would have thegirl and his work would prosper, while the elf would no longer be alone in aworld of men. 

One of the others drew off his filter and tested the air. "Bad," he grunted.
"But now that you've wakened us, there seems little enough harm in it.
Perchance the years of sleep have given us strength against the poison fumes." 

More likely it was the call to work, Ellowan reflected, stronger even than thepoisons of the air. And someday when the boy's plant expanded, the call wouldbe greater, and others might be awakened until the Little People could comeinto their own again. They were sleeping in the hills now, but not for long. 

The rabbits were James Beard's idea. He wrote me that back in the days whenthe giants invaded the land, the Little People were given sanctuary in theholes of the rabbits, and that since then there has been a close relationshipbetween them. But skunks were never seen there. So what would an elf think of 
a-skunk? The rest of the story was mine. 

Campbell and the readers were apparently satisfied with it, but I wasn't sure.
It seemed to me that Ellowan was more sympathetic in the first story, and thatI might better have left him as he was. I Still feel the sequel was a slightmistake, though not a bad one. And since then, I've deliberately avoidedwriting sequels, except much later when publishers demanded them for juvenilebooks. I've had a, number of ideas for stories to follow others, but I've putthem firmly aside. 


Still, for personal reasons, I'm glad I wrote the story. I'd been vaguelydeciding to go up to New York to see Campbell for a while before, and thestory gave me a good excuse. I put it into an envelope, dug out some otherstuff, and went up by bus. 

Street and Smith published Astounding then, from headquarters in an oldbuilding at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifteenth Street. (I always studymaps before I go anywhere, and I have a good memory, so I had no troublegetting about by subway, which con


veniently went from near my hotel to where I was going.) The building was old,
and the elevator was one that had seen better days. Isaac Asimov writes of thesmell of printing paper, but I never noticed it, though great bales of it werestacked about. My nose was probably deadened by smelling it too often in anewspaper office. But I did smell a kind of moldy odor. I didn't find it veryexciting. 

Nor was the entrance to Campbell's office anything to rave about. It was downone twisty little hallway after another, with the door skillfully hidden bymore paper in bales. 

But there was no hiding the man behind the desk as he stood up to welcome me.
He was huge, and he seemed to lift the even huger barrel of his chestponderously, as if by effort. A head with a stiff bristle of close-croppedhair seemed balanced precariously on heavy shoulders. The nose was sharp, theeyes piercing. Then the face broke into a smile, and he suddenly looked likesome overgrown pixie. That was my first view of John W. Campbell. 

"We-e-ehlll, del Key," he said in a rather high voice. The tone was somewhatamused at the specimen before him, but warm in spite of that. "Take a chair.
You're not at all what I pictured." 

I'd had that reaction before. I stretched to five-feet-five early in themorning, and then weighed exactly the eighty-nine pounds that was synonymouswith a weakling in the ads. So I grinned back and admitted that he wasn'texactly what I'd expected. 

He chuckled at that and settled back, stuffing a fresh cigarette into aholder. He took my manuscript, tossed it aside negligently, and nodded to apile of magazines. "Seen the latest Astounding?" 

I had, and we immediately went into a long discussion of the stories in it,
followed by his account of the great stories he had lined up for futureissues. He'd apparently just accepted either an outline or the finished storyby A. E. van Vogt with the strange title of "Slan" and was bubbling withenthusiasm for it. (It deserved his praise.) He told me enough to whet myappetite, then leaned back and grinned. "And now can you guess where thesupermen are hiding?" 

"Did you say this dictatorship had a palace?" I asked. 

For a second, he frowned. Then he nodded slowly and chuckled. "Okay. Supposeyou drop back here about five, and I'll take you out to my place for supper,"
he suggested, dismissing me. 

He hadn't said a word about my writing, and didn't during the whole visit. But 


somehow, he'd made a lot of points about what he wanted, and had managed toteach me more than I realized until I had time to digest it. 

When I went back, he had the check waiting for me. I know that John hated tobother the front office, but this was only the first of many times when he didso to get me a quick check. He was like that. 

That evening, after supper, we inspected his fuel battery. He had written astory about one once, but I didn't know he'd actually built one. It didn'twork very well, but it was a prototype of the fuel cells later developed forwork in space, and he had every right to be proud of it. Then we talked mostlylike good fans about the old days of science fiction—all the way back to 1930! 

The next day, I went in to see another editor. Frederick Pohl had just begunworking for Popular Publications, editing Astonishing Stories for them at someminuscule salary. What a contrast! Here, everything was efficient and busy,
with well-laid-out offices, a standard receptionist, and all the trappings ofbusiness. Only Fred seemed out of place, sitting behind a desk with his shoespropped up on it. We talked briefly about business, and he took the copies of"It Comes Out Here" and "Ice" I'd brought along as an excuse to see thisfamous science fiction fan. Then we spent some time talking about our realinterest—fans and fandom. 

I had one other visit to make. I'd corresponded in a sort of mutual admirationwith L. Sprague de Camp, and he'd invited me by postcard (he never usedanything but postcards, so far as I knew) to drop in. We had a marvelousvisit, discussing phonetics more than science fiction, and then he invited meto go down with him to see the Naval Games. I'd read about these mock seabattles with tables of statistics and model ships, but wasn't the leastinterested. However, I was interested in the men who would be there. I wasstill enough of an unabashed fan to be a bit in awe of a room that containedFletcher Pratt, L. Ron Hubbard, and I forget how many other writers. (This wasbefore Dianetics, when Hubbard was a writer of numerous pulp stories; in thosedays, he was a big genial redhead who could tell whopping good stories aboutall the adventures nobody believed he'd had.) And when Sprague finally let meoff outside my hotel, I was in something of a daze. I was also filled withinspiration—any visit to Campbell seemed to produce that—and eager to get backto the typewriter. 

I got over it fairly quickly. I'd figured out an incredibly clever idea abouta man who comes down from heaven on a visit, equipped with enough miracles totake care of the trip. Unfortunately, they're all second-class ones, becausehe chose by quantity instead of quality. I knew it was a great idea as I beganit. Somehow, by the time I had 

put 6,400 words on paper, I was less sure. But I sent "Miracles, Second Class"
off to Campbell. Its speedy return somehow dampened all my writing enthusiasm,
and I went back to having fun with other business. 

But in December, there was another idea for a story from John—or this time,
really from Willy Ley through John. It suggested a very good story, but I wasbusy then with stuff I was supposed to deliver well before Christmas. As aresult, I rushed the story through the typewriter without taking enough timeto think it over. I finished writing and retyping the 11,000 words of"Reincarnate" in one day, once I had the basic idea worked out, and waited,
half expecting it to be returned. But instead, I got a prompt check for$137.50, which made my year's total come out to a little over $1,000. It was 


the most I was to make from writing for a long time. 

8-'Reincarnate 

(by Lester del Rey) 

_ L~\ Thorne Boyd lay in a dark tarry pit under black stars that threw out 

hot blinding points of jagged lightning. And the lightning was aimed at him,
crashing down in a steady tumult of sound that shattered into his mind andkept him from fainting. Where the pinpoint lightning struck, pain lanced outwith soul-tearing force that threatened to sear his flesh from his bones. Itwas hot and cold, and all the sensations of a lifetime seemed determined topile up on him in one malefic swoop. 

The sensation was too much for his body; it tore itself away from him, leavinghis brain stranded in the pit, and went tearing off through the turgidblackness. Without senses, his mind yet followed it, striving to draw it back. 

"Come back, body!" he yelled at it, but there was no sound save the thunderingyammering of the lightning. That seemed in some mysterious way to sense hisultimate nakedness, for it crashed down 

more fiercely, and the black stars threw off their veils, revealing themselvesas vultures soaring in a murky sky. With inexorable precision, they wheeledslowly down toward him, beady red eyes feasting on the sight of his nakedbrain. 

Wild thoughts ran through his mind. "Poe'd love this—only they aren't ravens."
Then there was no time for thought. The monsters were so near that their wingsbeat a brazen cacophony in his ears. He had to leave. In a frenzied struggle,
he thrust out wisps of matter from his brain to serve as legs and beganrunning, running—but the smooth surface of the pit held him fast, and hisfalse legs were too weak. The birds sank lower. One of them came to rest. 

A strong beat, as of a heart, pulsed madly through his mind, and he let outone frantic cry that reverberated in a pitch too high for sound. Then his mindtore free and went soaring down and away, through Stygian depths that went onendlessly, toward some unknown goal. Something snapped. 

"Crazy dream," he thought. Or was it? He was still in darkness, set withjagged flashes of light that formed no pattern, and sound that rushed on in amuffled discordant roar. Pain was all about him. But the insanity of fear wasgone, and he began groping for a rational solution. 

He could not feel his body, though that was due to the pain, probably. Therehad been an accident—or was that a part of the dream? And today was to be hiswedding day. He struggled to get up, but bis only response was a fresh stab ofpain. Well, if he had to lie there, there was no other solution. Maybe therehad been an accident, fatal—and this might be Hell. It certainly wasn't theother place. 

Boyd settled his mind into rough order and subdued the larger part of thefear. The immediate past was still clouded, but perhaps if he went back overit, starting at the beginning of the day, some clue would come. If nothing 


else, a chronological review would take his • mind off his present condition. 

It had been the big day toward which they had been working. The smokestackswere throwing out their columns of inky oil smoke, telling of power feedinginto the turbines that furnished the station with a steady, dependable supplyof high-voltage, direct-current electricity. Allan Moss, old and bent, butstill with the hot fire that had made him the world's greatest mathematicianand physicist, was helping Boyd inspect the safety suits. 

"Lot of good they'll do if anything happens in there," he grunted. "You betterlet me go in alone, Thorne." 

Boyd shook his head, and his eyes traveled past to a figure motioning for himaround the corner. Moss followed his gaze and chuckled. "Go on, son, don'tkeep her waiting." 

Joan Abbot's dark hair was flying in the wind, her eyes filled with bubblingdeviltry that seemed never to leave them. "Meany," she greeted him. "I'll betyou forgot that tomorrow was to be our day. You and your old work." 

He grinned at her awkwardly, not quite sure of her banter, but pleased by it,
as always. He needed her lightness and gaiety, her willingness to find thesunnier side of everything in direct contrast to his own character. Seenthrough her eyes, life must be a wonderful thing. Time had taught him thatunder the effervescence and impulsive enthusiasm there was a mind he couldmeet and respect. 

"I haven't forgotten. Moss has agreed to drive us away as soon as he can getrid of your father, and I have the license in my pocket. Only I wish you'd letme tell your father we're being married." 

"No, you can't do that. Wait till it's over and I'll spring it on the olddear. Mmm, and won't he growl, though! But it never does him any good." Shegurgled and stretched herself up on tiptoes to grab for his neck. "Let's runaway now! Let's, Thorne." 

"No can do." He scraped his unshaven face down against hers, grinning slowlyas she slapped at him. "Anyway, you're only teasing me." 

She crinkled her nose up at him. "How'd you guess? Mmm." The pause that becamenecessary was definitely not unpleasant. "All right, Pickleface, you can goback to your work, but if you leave me at the altar—" 

Moss looked up at them and tucked an almost paternal smile away in the comerof his mouth. "Been poking your nose into things that were none of yourbusiness again, youngster?" he asked her. 

She nodded, peering over his shoulder at the suits. "Mm-hmm. One of the menopened the casing around your atom-smasher and let me look inside. I promisedhim I wouldn't tell you who he was." 

"And did you understand anything you saw?" 

"A little. I've been studying lately, so I'd know what Thorne is doing. He'lltalk about his work all the time, and a good wife should understand, shouldn'tshe? What's a restrictive field, Dr. Moss?" 


Moss shoved the work aside and sat down opposite her. He was always willing toanswer her eternal questions, and managed somehow to make it clear. Somethinginside the old scientist went out to the insatiable curiosity that filled her.
"A restrictive field is just what 

its name implies. It's a field of force generated around something anddesigned to hold that something within certain limits or patterns. You mightsay that a magnet exerts such a field on iron filings to keep them fromscattering and line them up in definite patterns. Only we're using a field tohold neutrons in the uranium 'fuel' and not let them dissipate uselessly asthey try to. Understand?" 

"Mm. Well enough." She ran curious fingers inside the suit and examined it.
"What's this for?" 

"In case there's trouble inside. Just an added precaution." Boyd picked her upand set her out of his way while she squeezed his nose with a little hand. Thecooing sound she made embarrassed him, but he wouldn't have made her stop itfor an extra arm. "Dr. Moss and I aren't taking any risk, you see." 

She appealed to Moss again, a serious note in her voice. "Why do either of youhave to go? Couldn't you control it from outside or use automatic machinery?" 

"Not well enough. Automatic machinery can't do things it isn't designed for.
When we start ripping atoms to pieces, we'll have to expect the unexpected.
That's what men were built for—emergencies." 

She brushed her hair away from troubled eyes, and a frown had taken the placeof her impish deviltry. "Thorne, I'm scared. Call it a sudden premonition, ifyou like, but don't go in there. Or let me go with you. Please." 

"You stay out here and it'll be over before you know it. There's no realdanger," he assured her. "If we thought there were, we wouldn't be going in,
would we?" 

"But if there's no danger, why can't I go in with you?" 

"Because—" Feminine logic was too direct at times. "Well, your father . . ." 

"Speaking of me?" The voice came from behind them, thin and* crisp, that of aman used to giving orders without the need of backing them up with anythingbut money. They saw the tall, heavy figure of John Abbot entering the doorway. 

Moss covered quickly. "Just warning your daughter not to go fooling aroundwhile the experiment's in progress. She's a science bug, you know, poking hernose into everything. Ordinarily, I like it, but not today." 

"Okay, meanies." Joan grinned at them, though it looked a little forced, andkissed her fingers at Boyd with her back toward her fa


ther, then went tripping out, an odd look of determination on her face. Abbotsquatted down on a box and watched them dourly. 

"Better work," he grunted. "Some of the men are complaining about the moneywe've invested in this, with no results for two years. I still don't see whyyou needed all this for an experiment." 


"I warned you it'd take five years, maybe." Moss had the patience with workand men that necessity develops in scientists. "And in dabbling with atoms,
there is no small-scale experiment. The results gained then mean nothing.
Finished, Thorne?" 

"Yeah, the suits are in good condition. Mica's clear and the asbestos hasn'tbeen damaged." 

"Good." Moss picked up one and Boyd followed with the other, leaving Abbotstaring after them. They slipped through the doors of the great barnlikeexperimental building and began donning their suits by the control table atone side of the forty-foot shell encasing the atom-blaster. 

Boyd looked at Moss and voiced the question that had been troubling him formonths. "How'd you ever pry the money out of Sourpuss in the first place?" 

"I didn't. He heard the government was planning to finance my experiment andcame after me on double-quick. Had visions of what government control ofatomic power would mean to his utilities, and got the other financiers in withhim. It's the first time he's had an employee whose orders had to be followed,
and he doesn't like it." Moss chuckled. "Wonder what he'll say when you runoff with his daughter?" 

"Lord knows. Probably try to fire me, but I'm counting on you and her to pullme through that, if our work succeeds; anyway, if it does, he won't kick toohard. What are you planning to do after this is over?" 

"Publish my monograph on restrictive fields and mathematical concepts ofatomic disruption—the one with the new type of math I've spent two yearsteaching you." His heavily gloved fingers found the zipper on the suit finallyand pulled it up, muffling his words. "After that, I'll probably visit NormanMeisner at City Hospital. Haven't seen him for years, and he's invited me downto see his latest miracle." 

Thorne grunted as the zipper on his own suit slid up. "I was reading aboutthat miracle; something about his taking a dog's brain and putting it in somemechanical body where it learned to wag its 

tail, wasn't it? The newspaper account gave practically no information." 

"Something like that. Ready?" 

"Ready!" Boyd watched the indicators as Moss turned on power into therestrictive fields that would limit the spread of neutrons and stabilizeatomic breakdown. For a split second he imagined he caught a flash of movementin one corner of the building, but there was nothing there when he looked. Heturned back to the panel. Power was already swelling out. 

Moss leaned over, yelling above the sound of the machinery. "Looks good, eh?"
A sudden flash of red sent him darting back, and his hand groped for a switch.
Then a roar of light, heat, and sound cascaded out from the big shell! 

For a fraction of a second, there was a scream in Boyd's ear, and he felt hishands clutch at the control switch. Then his mind blacked out, leaving only anumb nightmare of agony. 

It could have been only a few seconds later when the agony brought 


consciousness back again. He made groping movements that sent cold throbs upto join the killing pain, and from the motions, a picture of his own conditionsprang into being. His arms were half gone, there were no legs, and the bodyof which he had been so sure was only the withered hulk of a man—a cinder leftmiraculously behind to mark the fury of the atom flame! From the pain, part ofhis face must have been torn away, and sight and sound were gone. 

Desperation killed the pain temporarily, and he fought to shout. He was onsomething that gave like sand, and the dull thuds around him could be only theearth vibrations of footsteps coming at a run. The blast must have thrown himfree of the building, out onto the ground, and the other men were just comingup. 

A faint idea was in his head, though the torture of existence fought againstit. Sand below him, the stump of an arm—and no other, means of telling what hewanted. 

A convulsive heave threw him to what should have been his knees, and the rightstump of his elbow bit down into the sand. He had only muscular memory toguide him, and the letters would have to be big. "MEISNER," the stub scrawled,
and he fought backward against restraining hands that were meant to soothehim. Then: "CITY HOSP—N —" The "Y" was only half completed when his bodyrefused to stand more and collapsed. 

Now he was here—wherever here was—with only a dim idea that too much time hadpassed. The review of the past had only suggested 

that he was dead and in Hell—or in City Hospital. And that would mean-Thebrain of a dog in a metal case, wagging a tail. Meisner of City Hospital, withthe charred body of what had been a man, and only the first few experiments topave the way. Boyd writhed mentally in the fantastic horror to which he hadawakened and hoped suddenly that he was dead and in Hades. That at least wouldgive him a background of familiarity. The other possibility was beyond theimagination. 

Norman Meisner had left Germany as a boy. Had he remained, he might havebecome a great engineer, as he had planned. Instead, by a long chain ofcircumstances, he now held the reputation of being the greatest experimentalsurgeon on the American continent, and his word was law in the newly builtexperimental wing that had been added to City Hospital. Medicine was finallylearning the value of "abstract" science. 

"Morning, Papa Meisner," a trim nurse greeted him, and he chuckled amiably atthe surprised expression that crossed the face of his companion. 

"Discipline is not good, eh? But when it is brains that are needed, should aman bother with so small things? No, I think not. It is when they are happythey work best." 

Dr. Martin nodded in half agreement "You seem to get results, anyway. That'sall the board's interested in. It isn't official yet, but they've decided tovote you the money you've been asking to continue this latest thing of yours." 

"I don't need their money now. It is recently I have acquired a new donation—
for experimental work only—from a rich man. I have work from him to do, as you 


shall see after this." He led the way down the hall to his private laboratoryand smiled at the tall young man waiting outside. "The reporters all here,
Tom?" 

"All here. Hello, Dr. Martin." 

Martin nodded at him. "Finished your course yet, Tom?" 

"Full-fledged engineer now. But I've been helping Dad with the mechanical endof this new work—sort of ex officio." 

They followed Meisner in and worked their way through the representatives ofthe press until they were standing beside a gleaming metal box that lay on abare table, with only a small magnetic speaker in front of it. Its smoothsurface was broken by a hole at one end and 

a short rubber tube that projected from the other. From inside came a fainthum and a regular muffled thudding. 

"Good morning, gentlemen," Meisner greeted the reporters. "Now if you'll letme run this little show to my satisfaction . . . Rex, wake up!" 

The tube at the rear came to sudden life and began twitching in a haphazardfashion, and a rough whining sound was emitted from the speaker. The reportersstared at it curiously, though they knew roughly what it was. 

One of them started to ask a question, and the tube stopped its beating at thenew sound; the speaker made a hoarse, sharp noise, almost like a bark. Thebarking continued until Meisner made soothing sounds that quieted it. Theplump little physician patted his stomach fondly, opened the top of the box,
and pointed inside. 

"Life," he began, "must have food and air for energy, water to serve as aliquid medium, no? Good. And it must have blood to carry them, and somethingto remove the waste matter from the cells, or the blood. Also, to survive isneeded white corpuscles or some other defense to kill destructive organisms,
such as bacilli. Here, I have them all. When my Rex is run over, I fix him upa new body for his brain—not good, maybe, but better than nothing. 

"See, here is the brain case and the big blood vessels are connected to thismechanical heart—a refinement I make on the Lmdbergh-Carrel pump which youknow, maybe. Here is a jet air infuser for a lung; blood goes in, losescarbonic acid gas, and picks up oxygen. So. Then up through the brain, downinto this glass kidney —the same that Lindbergh also worked on—and the life-
poisons come out and are a trouble no more. This is the stomach, where predigested 
food enters the blood by osmosis." 

The newspapermen were impressed, but hardly amazed. Most of them had seenpieces of chicken's heart kept alive by the use of th§ Lindbergh pump andkidney before. This was merely a refinement of that, though the use of anentire brain was a big forward step. "I suppose you put in new blood as theold red corpuscles break down?" one of them asked. 

"Ach, that is the beauty of this; blood I do not use." Meisner waited fortheir reactions until satisfied that they were properly curious. "I have a newsubstitute for blood. It carries food, air, and water, just as does the real,
but there is no breaking down. That is the great advance." 


Dr. Martin stared at him with sudden interest. "How about its 

effects on the cells? I suppose it's some nontoxic organic compound with aloose affinity for oxygen, but do the cells work well with it?" "Perfectly.
And—" He tapped a small chamber that had been overlooked. "Here it issterilized. With real blood, that could not be, no? Real blood has whitebodies that fight disease, but my blood washes the germs through this andpoof—they are dead. I have given my brain all that is needed for life." 

"Yeah, but how'd you get the brain in there without letting it die? And whatstarts the magnets that wag its 'tail'?" 

Meisner shrugged. "Have you no imagination? First the blood vessels are openedand reconnected one by one, so life does not stop, until the artificial heartdoes all the work. Then my liquid replaces the blood, and the brain is movedto its new case—not before. And the nerve endings, which conduct faintcurrents of electricity from the brain, are hooked up to platinum filaments.
So. And their so faint electric impulse is boosted in relays to operate themagnets and the speaker which is connected to two modulators, one for thewhine and the other a bark." 

He held up his hands to silence their instant protests. "So, you know nobodycan trace out individual nerves, eh? That is true. But I can locate nervebundles that lead to the ears, throat, and tail, and separate the sensorynerve bundles from the motor impulse bundles. I attach the bundles on theright places, not separating nerves, and hope maybe the brain gets somesensation—and it does. Two months Rex has had to learn in, and already heknows my voice and his name. Rex!" 

Again the speaker whined and the tube that served as a tail twitched. It beatin a hopelessly disordered fashion, but apparently any beat seemed better thannone to the dog's mind. The reporters examined it again, checked up on theirinformation, and began filing out. "Going to use it on a man sometime?" one ofthem asked as a 

parting shot. 

"Why not, maybe?" Meisner turned to his son as they left and he grinned.
"Maybe we use it on a man, eh? Tom, shall we honor the fine Herr Doktor Martinwith our latest efforts?" 

Tom's grin answered him. "If it won't shock the esteemed Dr. Martin." 

Martin stared from one to the other, making no sense of their expressions.
"Why so darned mysterious?" 

Meisner took his hand on one side, and Tom marched around 

him to the other. "You now have the honor, Dr. Martin, of seeing— oh, skip it,
come on and see for yourself. It really isn't funny, after all." 

Dr. Charles Martin followed along meekly enough, as they led him, and lightbegan to dawn. Unless he was mistaken seriously, what he was about to see hadsomething to do with the reporter's last question. 

Ill 


Boyd fought against himself in the crazy world of chaotic sensation to whichhe seemed doomed, and sudden darkness rolled down over him, cutting off thedisordered jumble of varicolored light that had been torturing his eyes—orwhere his eyes had been. With a sense of pride he realized he'd done theequivalent at least of closing his eyelids. 

But the dark emphasized the solitude of the place. There was still a rushingconfusion of sound, but the hours he had lain there had dimmed hisconsciousness of it until it formed a hazy pattern in his mind. The pains wereless sharp now, mercifully. 

But there was no mercy for him. In spite of himself, his mind insisted onspeculating on death, though the more rational thoughts insisted that thiscould not be death. 

A sudden torrent of fresh sound struck down on him, not loud but raucous indisorder. The sounds grew louder and changed, and he guessed that something orsomeone was coming closer to him. He tried to see, and again his eyes actedwithout his knowledge of how. Stronger light lanced out, flickering for amoment, and then burning hotly. His struggles to close his eyes again onlyresulted in a harsher glare, as if his pupils had dilated. 

The confused sounds kept on, and there was something in the rise and fall ofthem that suggested speech. They were clearer than the, other noises. Boydcried out, or tried to, and was startled to hear a grating jangle. It couldn'thave been his voice, yet he was sure it had come from him. 

The other noises stopped momentarily, and then the sound he had made wasrepeated, slightly changed but recognizable. Surely no human throat could haveimitated it—a hyena, perhaps, but not a man. lie tried again, getting adifferent noise this time, and it was repeated by the other. 

There was a silence for a moment, and a clear tone broke in, different fromthe rest. It was hoarse, but lacked the confusion of all 

f oraier sounds. "Dit-dit-dit-dit," it said in short clicks. Then there was aslight pause, and it began again, this time in longer signals mixed with theshort ones. "Dit. . . dit-dah-dit-dit. . . dit-dah-dit-dit. . . 

dah-dah-dah." 

The short clicks and longer ones resembled something he had heard. He gropedaround in his mind, seeking the answer, and finally found it. The irregularfrequency was that of a telegraph sounder, and the clicks must be code. Itcame again, and he listened more closely, piecing out the letters. "H. . .E.
..?...?.. .O." 

"Hello!" That was what they were saying. But his knowledge of code was toolimited. As a boy, he had known a friend who operated a ham station, but allhe had ever learned were the symbols for THE, I, and SOS. That gave sixletters out of twenty-six. He started to return the signal they sent withwhatever noise his throat chose to make, depending on the length instead ofarticulation of sound, but thought better of it. If he made no reply, theymight realize he could 

not understand. 


There was a conference of noises, and the clicking again, all short this time.
One click, space, two clicks, space, three— They were running over the numbersin the simplest of codes. Clumsily he repeated, and the numbering left off.
Then the clicker reverted to a series of mixed short and long sounds, withspaces coming in irregular order. He counted the sounds between spaces andmade out twenty-six. As the signals started again, he checked. The fifth wasE, the eighth H, and the others fitted in. They were sending the alphabet forhim to memorize. He selected four of the most necessary letters andconcentrated on them until he was sure he could make an intelligible sentence.
"Where am I?" 

There was an excited buzzing of sounds, and the clicker broke out quickly, "o- 
are i- the -it- hos-ita- to -et we—." So he was in City Hospital and theywere trying to patch up what was left of him. But how much was that. Somethingwas wrong with his sight, his hearing, and his voice, and he had no ability tomove any other part—or at least could feel no response. 

The alphabet was running through again, certain letters emphasized by longerspace between them this time. He made a sound when satisfied that he knewthem, and the sounder began picking out words slowly and carefully. "This isMeisner. You are making out well. You must rest now. We 

will make you well. We must leave now. The machine that makes ABC will stay tokeep teaching you. You must not worry." 

Even the simple sentences brought half comfort, suggesting as they did thepossibility of communication. Boyd made the proper sounds for "yes," and thenoises that were voices began to fade away. The machine kept up itsalphabetical discourse. 

They were almost gone when Boyd remembered the questions he must ask andshouted. There was a series of increasing sounds, and a voice answered. 

"Moss?" he spelled. 

"Dead!" 

"How long?" 

"A month," the answer came. "No worry. All is well." 

Then the voices receded again, and he knew he was alone. So Moss was dead, andit was a month since he had been conscious. They must have kept his minddrugged while the pain of healing was going on, and the ache he was nowexperiencing must come from muddled sensations. A month, while he had lainhere in a fog, and the world had gone on without him. 

It must have been hell for Joan, he thought. Next time the men came to seehim, he'd ask about her, if he wasn't too horrible for her to see. Perhaps itwould be better if she never visited him. As a future husband, he was awashout. 

The clicking of the machine called his mind back, and he turned his thoughtsto the code, glad for a reason to forget all the troubles that were looming upfor the future. Hours sped by, and the machine buzzed on, leaving the alphabetfor simple primer sentences. He seemed to have no desire for sleep, and the 


light flashes finally disappeared, leaving him in darkness that was soothing.
Some of the noises in the background disappeared, and he realized it wasnight. 

The machine went back to simple words, and there was a new ele-, ment. "Man"
it spelled out. "M." The letter was followed by a different noise, then "A"
and another. Finally the whole word was spelled in completion and a longernoise that resembled the voice Sounds of the men. They were trying to teachhim to speakl 

The sounds that followed the letters seemed all alike at first, but slowly henoted minor differences that clarified as he studied them. They bore noresemblance to speech as he remembered it, being a jumble of whistles, buzzes,
and things for which there was no name. Dutifully, he tried to imitate them,
but the response was disheartening. In the hours that followed he learnedthere were just thirty-one 

sounds he could make, and that making them in any logical order was going totake education. His voice refused to respond to the old patterns of speech inany sensible fashion. And some of the sounds he had regarded as primary werenow made up of more than one. A vowel might require two or more sounds blendedin rapid order. 

But slowly the distinctions between the sounds he could hear became plainer,
and he was able to grasp in a dim way the meaning of a few words out of eachsimple sentence before the code form was spelled out. It was slow, grim workand only the desperate urge for knowledge of himself drove him on. 

Light was streaking back again as he made his last efforts at speech.
Surprisingly enough, at the twentieth time ordered sound came out. "I am." Thewords that man had first spoken in the dim past when consciousness of self wasnew. Now they marked a milestone in his progress as great as that firsteffort. 

He could not repeat them, though he tried. But what he had done once could bedone again, in time; he might leam even to recognize the weird conglomerationthat constituted speech for him with a semblance of ease. At least he wouldnot be doomed forever to 

solitude. He was! For the time, that would have to suffice. 

"The prince kissed her lightly," oozed the telegraphone with nice unction,
"and Sleeping Beauty opened her eyes and smiled at him. Then they were marriedand lived happily ever after." 

Boyd swore mentally at the recording. It wasn't bad enough to stay awaketwenty-four hours a day in Hell, but they had to furnish recordings to remindhim of his sleepless condition. Not that he needed sleep, apparently. But alittle merciful oblivion would have been welcome. Still, the machine wasfamiliarizing him with the hoots and gargles that represented spoken language. 

Grumbling to himself, he turned his attention to the chart that hung over him.
By a series of manipulations that normally would have made his eyes act in adistinctly abnormal manner, he finally focused on it and began piecing out thecharacters. They all looked like blobs of wax that had been left too long in 


the sun, but careful study was bringing some sense out of them. 

He could recognize the straight lines now, and a few letters of the alphabet,
though he had to take their words about the beauty of the 

girl's face in the central picture. So far, motion was the only thing thatregistered properly, when he could keep it in focus. 

"Like using the faceted eyes of an insect," he growled. Then it didn't soundright; he repeated it. That was better. His new voice still insisted ongetting the whistle that went with "k" mixed up with the rushing cough thatstood for "e." 

Someone was at the door, coming toward him, from the sound. He waited until amoving blob registered on his eyes, looked for what he had come to know as abeard, and decided from its absence that his visitor was Tom Meisner. Therewas another figure with him, thinner, and also without a beard. 

"Hello, Boyd." Tom's clear-cut English identified him further. "I've boughtyou a visitor—Mr. Abbot." 

Looking at the other, Boyd decided it did look something like Abbot. Carefulinspection revealed the bald spot on the man's head, and he felt a sudden glowof pride at his achievement. Then it disappeared into the usual gloom.
"Hello," he said slowly. "I didn't expect to see you, Mr. Abbot." 

"And why not?" From the speed of the words, the question was probably meant tobe good-natured, though the fine nuances of tone failed to register. "You'vebeen costing me a small fortune, Thorne, so I figured I might as well see whatwas coming of it." 

"You've been paying for me?" It was news to Boyd, though he had wondered aboutthe financial end of it. "Why?" 

Something that might have been a chuckle came from Abbot. "Not fromsentimental reasons, as you've guessed. I've been paying because I need yourmemory and knowledge. When I saw what you'd scrawled in the sand, I figuredyou'd learned something that might prove the solution to the problem of power,
and took you to Meisner. What was it?" 

"Mostly nothing. Instinct of self-preservation, I guess, made me, write that.
You've had experts go over the wreck?" 

"Naturally, and they don't understand it. Some of Moss's notes are incomplete,
and the equipment is pretty well ruined. The other Investors in the work areyelling about the money they've put in, and I've got to show results." Abbotpaused, and Boyd guessed which one of the investors was most worried about themoney. "At least, you can supply the information in the missing notes." 

"It wouldn't do any good, sir. All I know is that the field we'd built upcollapsed just after it started, and the experiment went wild before theneutrons were dissipated enough for the reaction to stop. 

Theory doesn't explain that, and another test might give you more things likeme. If I could go over the wreck and try again, I might find the trouble. But—
" 


"Good." Abbot picked up his hat and started to leave. "Hurry up and learn touse your arms and legs, and I'll see you don't lose if it works." He motionedTom back and went out the door alone, leaving Boyd's mind in a state of numbedshock. 

Learn to use his arms and legs! He'd been thinking of himself as a brain in abox, with nothing but the senses of sight and hearing, but that was apparentlyfalse. Now, perhaps he wasn't like the dog in the newspaper item. Perhaps—
Fifty wild conjectures ran through his mind in the half second it took him tocall Tom. 

Young JVIeisner sat down within range of his sight, and his voice was low andcalm. "I know, Boyd. Take it easy. We didn't tell you about it because wewanted you to spend all your time learning to see and talk. But you're aboutas complete as we can make you. Ever read any of those robot stories?" "Yes,
but-" 

"Well, in a rough way, that's what you are now. There wasn't enough of yourbody left to save, so we gave you a new one. In some ways, it can't equal theold one, but it has points of superiority. The blood system insures your brainagainst disease and fatigue. You'll never need sleep because all poisons areremoved as they form. You'll never have to worry about your body wearing out,
because new parts can be added. And you'll probably live longer thanMethuselah, since your brain cells are perfectly fed and cared for. Forinstance, the thermostatic controls that keep your brain and spinal cord atthe right temperature are far more sensitive and dependable than the normalbodily methods." 

Some of those, Boyd decided, weren't assets. He'd have given a lot for onenight's sleep and forgetfulness, and the idea of living a long time mightprove a mixed blessing. But there was no use of complaining about that. "How'dyou do it?" 

"By combining Dad's surgical skill with what I know of engineering, andgetting a lot of outside help," Tom answered. "Your ears are vocoders,
breaking down sound into its basic elements. For a voice, you have theopposite, a voder, that takes the basic elements and recombines them. Wecouldn't hope to re-create anything like the original, since nature, workingwith millions of unified cells, is devilishly complex. But the substituteswill serve fairly well. "You have a television scanner for eyes, connected tothe optic 

nerves, and the nerves governing your eye muscles are hitched on to change thefocus tubes and move them about. We used a photoelectric cell to govern theiris setting, but you can control that to some extent. Incidentally, ourbiggest trouble was getting a television hookup that would work properly withlenses having a focal length short enough to give sufficient depth of field toyour sight, and the wide-angle f: i.o lenses had to be made specially. 

"Most of the apparatus is located in your torso, of course, along with the newhigh-power accumulator coils to furnish power. Not having your atomic energyyet, that's the best we could do, so you'll need recharging regularly." 

"Mmm." In a hazy way, Boyd had figured out part of that for himself, but hischief interest was in motility. "What about the muscles in arms and legs?" 

"Magnets. Dad planned on using motors and sliding shafts, but that would have 


taken a body the size of an elephant. We used thin disk magnets with a onetenth-
inch gap between them. A hundred of them equal a ten-inch gap, andthere's no comparison between the two when it comes to pull exerted. Where thebig gap might not work, the series of small ones pack in plenty of power. Theold inverse-square law that applies to all force fields, you know." 

The door opened again with a faint creak, and Meisner's thick pronunciationbroke in on them. "So?" He moved over beside his son. "So you tell our Mr.
Boyd all about himself, eh? All I hear is how good an engineer you are to makea body like this. How you feel, Boyd?" 

"A little better, now that I won't be cramped down in a box all my life. Whatabout the sense that governs muscular movements?" 

"You see, Dad, he wants to know. You can boast about your part when I'mfinished." Boyd made out that Tom and Meisner were grinning at each other asthe younger man went on. "We used, piezoelectric crystals as pressuredetectors in the muscle piles. They should gauge the effort applied by themagnets and serve as a fair kinesthetic sense. Temperature sense isn't soimportant to you, but we used thermocouples for that, and gyroscopes attachedto the balance-organ nerves supply a sense of balance." 

Meisner nodded. "And so you are a man again. A brain and spinal cord fromnature taken, a body made from skill. We hook the nerves to wire filaments,
indiscriminately, and they learn again. Maybe then you are once morecomplete." 

"Sounds like a horrible mess to me," Boyd stated. 

"Maybe. But it is nature that makes the so horrible mess. One million cellsshe puts in a muscle, and makes them work as one. A hundred little habits ofthought that you don't know about she gives you by experience, to work thosemillion cells. No, that we could not duplicate. We've simplified, instead.
That you could do all that you did before would be impossible, but that youcould approximate normal activity—yes. Good, eh?" 

"If I learn. But all the sensations I get are completely distorted." AgainMeisner disagreed. "Not distorted, but different. You are again a baby. Arethe eyes of a baby incomplete? No. But he has learned no habits ofunderstanding the messages sent by his eyes, and he cannot fully see. Even aboy of five may draw a picture that to him looks like .his mother, and to youor me, like nothing. 

"It is the old senses that lie as much as the new. You must forget the oldhabits and new ones acquire. In his head, man sees upright, but the message onthe nerves is reversed. Glasses have been built to reverse this, and for atime sight seems upside down; then, in a few weeks, the brain corrects, andall looks normal. Now it is without the glasses that sight is wrong. So. 

"I could sort afferent nerve bundles from efferent. I could trace the ones to 
the ears, to the eyes, to other parts. But the separate nerves? No, never. Andthey would not work with the new sensors and motors, anyhow. So the message issent to the brain—without any system it is sent. And the brain, that greatorganizer, it must learn to find habits that work with them. It will. In timenew habits you will learn, and then your senses will no longer distort" 

Boyd turned it over in his mind, and partly agreed. Already sound was 


beginning to seem more natural to him, and there was some promise of his eyesworking properly. He tried to see his body, but the movement of his eye tubeswas too limited for that. Meisner seemed to sense his desire. 

"There is a mirror here." He moved away for a few seconds, and came backcarrying something. Tom helped him adjust it. "So. Now look, if you must." 

Boyd looked. At first, he saw only a vague blur, but as he analyzed it part bypart, some meaning began to come out of what he saw. That was a straight line,
that a curve, and another straight line at a forty-five-degree angle. His mindbuilt up a picture from the separate messages sent to it. 

He was big, far bigger than any normal man; probably the problems of structurehad necessitated that. And his head was too large even 

for his body. They had made little effort to copy the human form accurately.
Tubes stuck out in front of his face for eyes, and there was no nose or chin.
He realized quickly that he looked less human than the various robots that hadbeen built for stage exhibition purposes. 

And in that body he was supposed to move about among the normal people of theworld! There could be no concealing it in coats and hats, no hope of beinganything but a freak for people to stare at. Men distrust the unknown, and hewould have few if any friends. No home, no social life—no wife! 

Surely he couldn't expect Joan to marry him in such a form. Perhaps that waswhy they had kept her from seeing him. He was a monster, a creation that evenFrankenstein would have shunned as unholy. All that was left to tie him to theworld of men was a job to be finished. 

"All right," he said. "Help me sit up and put that mirror where I can watchmyself. I've got to learn how to handle these muscles you gave me, if I canstart the things twitching." 

The razor blade was absolutely steady in the big hand and the hair movedtoward it surely until it was split smoothly down the center. The other handpicked up one of the pieces, and this time the blade moved against the halfhair, splitting it into quarters of the original. 

Boyd tapped one finger against the palm of his hand in a clicking sound heused to express satisfaction; some of the old habits had been redesigned towork with the new body. Being made of metal made for steadiness, at least, asthe split hair proved, and the auxiliary lenses changed the focal length ofhis eyes to his optional telescopic or microscopic sight. Now he slipped thelenses off and put them in the fur-lined pouch that was attached to his body. 

Tom Meisner opened the door of the office and came in, his lips blue with thecold, beating his hands together to warm them. "All set, Boyd," he said. "Thetransformers just came in. Want I should start the men on them?" 

Boyd grunted. "Guess so. Abbot's still climbing on me for being 10 slow. I'llgo along and help with the installation." Tom had been doing good work sincethe return to the station, and he was glad to have the young engineer as anaddition to his staff. He rose from his scat, a little jerkily as the faintgiddiness of motion hit him. His 


balance sense still wasn't in perfect tune, and a slight dizziness usuallyaccompanied any change of position. For a second, he moved his legs carefully,
then sureness came back. 

"The X-ray plates for the transformer cores they sent okay?" 

"Yeah, seem to be. I can't find a trace of flaw in any of the stuff this time.
Brrl It's colder than Billy-be-damned. How you can stand it without an—" Hecaught himself suddenly. "Skip it!" 

Even though he had been largely responsible for Boyd's body, Tom still madethose little mistakes. And his acceptance of Boyd as a man at such timesbothered more than the frank stares of the others. It was bad enough to be anobject of ridicule, but to have the other man start treating him normally andsuddenly realize the difference was worse. 

"I wouldn't get much good out of an overcoat," Boyd answered his unfinishedquestion. "It's a good thing you chose chrome steel for the foot plates,
though, with all this slush on the ground." 

His heavy feet made harsh plopping sounds in the muck that served as aconstant reminder of his strangeness. One of the men stopped his work to stareas he passed, wonder still written large on his face, though Thome had been atthe station nearly a month now. Then the man turned quickly and too obviouslyback to his work, avoiding Boyd's eyes. 

The men were uncomfortable, he could see, as they worked under his orders,
setting the big transformers in place, coupling them up, and adjusting them.
Some of them had worked with him before, on easy terms of camaraderie, and itwas hardest for them. They tried their best to act toward him as if nothinghad happened, and their efforts failed miserably. 

Some of the new men made jokes about him behind his back and called him"Frankie," derived mistakenly from Frankenstein. That did not worry him; ifmen could treat his new body as a joke and be serious about the brain in it,
life would be tolerable. But they pitied him, instead, and looked down at himfrom superior normality. They were a little too quick to accept his orders, toaddress him as "Mr. Boyd," to laugh at his attempted jokes. 

He caught up one end of a beam the men were working with and twisted it aroundto the position they wanted. For a minute, they looked up with surprise andadmiration, then it faded. Boyd's sharp ears caught the remark one of themmade. "Why shouldn't he be strong? Automobiles got strong engines, too. Hedon't need to show off in front of us." 

"Shut up, dammit!" the other growled, but there was the same hint of dislikein his voice. 

That's how it was. If he did what they couldn't, they resented it; if hefailed to do anything they could, they were condescendingly pitying. He was afreak, something hashed together from an accident, which should have killedhim, and they had to take orders from him. There was no way he could win theirrespect or friendship, since those were reserved for men with human bodies andlimitations. 

Tom came back as the last transformer was being swung up and in by the donkey 


engine hoist. "Dad phoned he was coming out this afternoon to check up on yourprogress," he said. "Should be here any minute." 

"Good." Thorne liked Tom's father better than anyone else he'd seen since theaccident; the physician worked on bodies but respected only brains. "Abbot'sdropping over, too, to let me understand just what each day's delay costshim." 

"He would, of course. He was decent enough about it all when we still had youback at City, but now he thinks there's no more excuse." Tom glanced backtoward the door and waved. "There's Dad now—hey! Watch it there!" 

The friction clutch on the hoist holding the transformer was slipping and themass of metal began to fall, wobbling sidewise. At Tom's yell, Hennessy, whowas waiting for it, started to jump back quickly, but the awkwardness offright tripped him. He sprawled flat, clawing wildly, and the transformerbegan slipping more rapidly. 

Boyd had no time to think of the signals his brain must send out. He shot fullpower into the magnets and jumped forward in two twenty-foot leaps thatbrought him under it, his arms up to catch it. His head spun with suddengiddiness, but the weight in his arms slowed reluctantly, came to a stop, andhe stood straining at the pull of it. It threatened to carry him down, but thefull strength of the body they had given him resisted, fighting to hold it andretain his balance. 

The other men shut their mouths and darted in now, pulling Hennessy out fromunder; the man had fainted. Then they came forward to catch at the transformerand help Boyd, but Tom's quick voice barked out. "Stop it! You'll do more harmthan good." 

Slowly Boyd moved it, edging his way forward half an inch at a time until itcame to rest over its supports. He let his knees flex slightly as it settled,
then it was still, ready to be bolted in. As he let 

go, a sick weight seemed to leave his mind. A few pounds or seconds more wouldhave been too much. 

He stopped to examine the metal on one arm, looking for dents or scratches,
and finding none. For the first time, the full realization of the strengththat was his came to him; four ordinary men would have buckled under the load.
But there was no pride in it—the achievement was really that of the Meisners,
who had built the body, not of himself. And the other men could hardly admirehim for doing a mechanical job well with a machine for a body. 

But the remarkable recuperative powers of his synthetic circulation systemcame into play almost at once, freeing his brain of the toxins of its effortsin commanding full power from the muscle piles, and he felt no ill effects.
Meisner stood beside him, raging at him hotly. 

"Nincompoop! Maybe it's mountains you'll move next, eh? Is it no gratitudethat you should try to destroy the life I gave you? One slip and—ploosh!—itsquashes you flat on the thin abdominal walls, and your nice new heart iskaputl Maybe you could live without a heart, eh? So? I think not!" 

Boyd looked at the surgeon and there was a grin in his mind, though no changecould show on his face. "Why all the fuss? You wanted to test me; there's your 


test." 

"So. Maybe it is. And there is nothing now wrong with you but that you thinktoo much about yourself and how different you are. You should forget that." 

One of the men tapped Meisner's shoulder. "Did you mean the accident mighthave killed him?" he asked. 

"And why not? The brain he has—maybe—is as soft as yours, the fool. Did youthink he was solid iron?" 

"No. No, I guess not." The man shook his head doubtfully and moved back to hisfellows, where the unconscious Hennessy was slowly coming around. 

A voice coughed from the doorway, and they turned to see Abbot standing there. 

"Nice work, Thorne," he commented. "Those transformers cost money, and havinga man killed here might cause trouble." 

"As much as a day's delay?" 

"More." Abbot chuckled. "All right, no talk of money today, then. How's itcoming?" 

"Most of the new stuff is in. Be ready to make a trial next week," Boyddecided. "And I'm glad you let me hire Tom, here. He's been doing some finework, and the men do well under his instructions." 

Abbot frowned slightly. "Mm-hm. A week, you say? But— All right, I said Iwouldn't say anything about it today, and I won't. There's someone I want tobring out when you go through with it. This. . . person insists on beingpresent." 

Meisner glanced at him quickly. "You mean— Maybe it should be. The—personmight benefit by it, even." 

"It's dangerous enough for me alone, without a stranger." Tom stuck his oarin, shaking his head at Boyd. "It's okay. I know whom they mean, and I thinkyou should do it, danger or not." 

"Anyway, I'm still in charge of the station," Abbot pointed out smoothly. Hetook Boyd's reluctant consent for granted. "Good, it's settled then. Want toride in with me, Dr. Meisner?" 

"I think so, yes. I'm not needed here. And Boyd, I shall expect to be presenthere when already you start the test." Meisner slapped the metal chest andfollowed Abbot out. Tom and Boyd turned back to the men who were finishingtheir work. One of the men gestured, and they stopped. "Well, Hennessy?"
Hennessy hesitated, looking uncomfortable, but another man urged him on.
"Look, boss, I— Well, some of us are going to town tonight, boss, to take in ashow, and we thought. . . well—want to come with us?" 

For once Boyd was glad that his face was expressionless as he looked at theothers and saw that they were all in on the invitation. But it wouldn't do toembarrass them in town with his presence, especially now that they hadsuddenly thawed. "Thanks, boys," he answered. "I appreciate the offer, butthere's a full night's work waiting for me. I'm on a twenty-four-hour schedule 


this week." 

There was no look of relief on their faces, as he had expected, but only thelook to be found whenever a friendly invitation is turned down for goodreason. "Any idea what happened?" he asked Tom as they moved away. 

"A little. For one thing, you saved Hennessy when they couldn't, at some riskto yourself. They heard Dad say you could be killed, and men are funny, thatway; they're just selfish enough to dislike anyone who can't be hurt, becausethey'd like that ability themselves and can't get it. Now, because you standabout as good a chance of getting killed as they do, they're back on evenfooting with you." 

Whatever the reason, it would be a blessing to work with them as a man again,
even though their social life was in another world. Boyd 

had a mental picture of himself at a show, and it didn't appeal to him.
Companionship, even when offered, was impossible for him. 

There was a hint of snow in the air, and the temperature outside was so lowthat Boyd had been forced to wear heavy rubbers to keep the dampness fromgetting onto his feet and freezing the joints stiff. He clumped around in themnow, thoroughly enjoying the ribbing the men were giving him about catchingpneumonia. They had loosened up remarkably in the last week. 

Now preparations for the test were complete, and they were waiting for Abbotand Meisner to arrive before starting. Tom was still begging to go in with himwhile the test was run, but Boyd was firm. 

"No soap, Tom. Having this whosit of Abbot's is bad enough. I wanted to takethe risk alone, since I could probably stand another explosion fairly well,
but I don't want three in there. You'd be needed anyway to build me a new bodyif this one gets wrecked." He wiggled his shoulders uncomfortably andscratched at his back. "Darn it, there's a place on my back that itches." 

Tom grinned, then saw that he was serious. "How could it?" 

"I don't know, but it does. Every time I get cold, it itches. You must haveput a defective thermostat in there, or gotten some nerves mixed up." Hetapped his back sharply. "There, that does it. A light blow works sometimes." 

"I'll have a look at you later when Dad's around," Tom offered. "Maybe I'dbetter increase your foot heaters at the same time. Anyhow, if s a good thingwe fixed it so you had electrical heat over your whole body if you insist onrunning around in the cold. Otherwise, your lubrication might stiffen up." 

Boyd grunted, looking down the road. "Here comes Abbot, and your father mustbe with him—there are two in front, and it looks a little like someone behind.
I'd rather not talk to them now, Tom, so I'm going inside, and you meet themhere. Send in whosit, if Abbot still insists. By the way, is he dry behind theears yet?" 

"Partly. Had a little science in college and been studying since, but it'smostly scientific curiosity. You'll have no trouble, though." Tom grinned athim, but Boyd could see nothing funny as he went into the experimental 


building. Even a well-trained helper might be a nuisance, and sending in agreenhorn was as idiotic a thing as he could think of. 

He couldn't help thinking of another person filled with incessant 

craving to know. Work and the need of relearning himself had filled his timeuntil Joan had been pushed into the background, but now her image came surgingup, bringing futile longings to his mind. Always in the background, he hadmissed her prying eyes and bubbling saucy grin. But they still told him thatJoan was sick, too sick to see him. That was probably an excuse to spare hisfeelings. 

Love, he supposed, was gone, since that was basically a physical sensation,
but respect, fondness, and desire for her company persisted. He needed hernow, more than ever. 

Meisner had been right; he did think too much of himself and his owndifferences. Life to him was a serious thing at best, and in his new body ithad assumed a tragic mood. He knew it, but with the queer twist of his brain,
the knowledge only made it worse. He needed someone to laugh at him, to lovehim, and to show him the gaiety and humor that lay all about him, someone likeJoan who could lend him her eyes and let him forget his own brooding. 

To a lesser extent, Allan Moss had done the same, and he was another that Boydmissed. The old physicist's theories and plans were familiar to him now, buthe still would have welcomed the firm guidance of the scientist, now more thanever. Instead of that, they were sending a science bug to add to his troubles. 

Then a metallic clanking behind him broke through his thoughts, and he swungquickly away from the control panel toward the door. Cold wonder caught at himas he saw the creature moving toward him. It was larger than a man, its shinymetal body topped by a head without either chin, neck, or face, save for tubesto serve as eyes. In every line and pattern, it might have been a mirror imageof himself! 

The figure moved forward calmly, holding out a hand. "Tom Meisner told me youwere all ready to begin. It's good to see you, Thorne!" 

Thorne! Boyd groped numbly, hunting some streak of light. Only Moss and a fewothers had used his first name, and now— It had to be Moss! If he had escaped,
the physicist might have also, though in little better shape. Since it hadapparently taken long to recuperate and relearn, he must have been even worsehit. And Abbot had made them say he was dead so that Boyd would be willing torush things through before the other could come out. That made sense. 

He stretched out a metal hand quickly, feeling confidence again for the firsttime since his return to the station. "And I can't say how 

glad I am to see you, sir. I've been trying to carry on, but you're neededhere. Want to take over?" 

A funny choking sound came from the other. "I'm afraid you'll have to do itall this time, Thorne. I'm not ... I won't be much help to you. Any idea ofwhat caused the failure before?" 

"Some idea," he said doubtfully, taking the control seat and pulling out thechair for the other. Obviously, Moss hadn't entirely recovered from the shock, 


but his mere presence helped. "It doesn't entirely suit me, and I'd rather notmention it until I find out whether it was purely mechanical defects thatcaused the field to collapse. Ready?" 

"Ready." 

Boyd closed the switches and watched power drain into the big shell, his e'yesglued to the indicators that shifted erratically before he could balance themaccurately. Then they found their marks and held. Nothing seemed wrong there.
One second went by, then others followed it. He counted slowly to fifty, andstill there was no sign of failure. The power needle that indicated energyrelease within the shell quivered and began to climb, and all was still inbalance. Boyd settled back somewhat, relief spreading through his mind. It wasworking. 

Plop! A thin red light cut on quickly and the needles quivered suddenly,
crazily. He tensed himself for movement, wondering whether he could make theswitch in time, and looked down. His hand was resting quietly on the switchand every needle was dead! His new arm had moved before the thought was morethan beginning in his mind. 

Quick reactions and no damage! That had been the trouble before; the ordinarymotor impulse had traveled along Moss's arm at a comparatively slow speed, incommon with all neural impulses, and things had happened before he could reachthe switch. But Boyd's nerves were filaments of silver and the electricalimpulse traveled down them with almost the speed of light, while the musclepacks threw the hand forward faster than the eye could see, before the fieldhad entirely failed. 

His companion stirred uneasily. "Is it over?" 

"That test is, and a failure. Thank heaven, not a fatal one, this time." Hegathered up the kit of high-tension testing meters they used and moved fromthe control seat toward the shell. Now he was more than willing to have theother here. Of all the men he could 

have chosen for a helper, Moss in his new body alone had reaction time quickenough for the work. 

"You'll have to watch the board, sir," he said. "It's in balance now, so justthrow the switch on when I signal, and keep your eyes glued on the panel. If ared light comes on or the needles bob, cut it off. You'll be able to do it intime." 

He set up the meters quickly, cutting in through the insulation around thetransformers and the box to the shell. At his motion, the switch was thrown,
and his pointers began pouring out their messages, registering thesurprisingly delicate balance of current on his dials. Then, while he wasstill analyzing them, they went dead. 

"Failure again," the other reported. "Find out what the trouble was?" 

Boyd assorted the results in his head until the jigsaw pattern shaped up.
"Yes. It's simple enough, though we'd never have guessed it before that firstattempt because of that simplicity. Back E.M.F. of a sort, you might say. Whenpower starts feeding in, it induces a back pressure in our field coils, likethe back current generated in a running electric motor. That current gets into 


the transformers and throws the balance of power feeding into the field offkilter, with the results we've seen. I think I know where the trouble starts." 

"But can we fix it today?" 

"Why not? I suspected it, and there's everything here to work with. We can doit together in half an hour and not bother the men." It was strange to beexplaining things to Moss and be giving orders, but the other seemed to expectit. Boyd motioned as the robot came down. "We'll yank this section of theshell out. If my idea works, we can shunt it around harmlessly." 

Again he was thankful for the presence of his companion. Mechanical bodies, hewas finding, had very definite points of superiority. They had preventeddisaster twice already, and now they promised to save the necessity of makingroom for a crew of men and machines that would have been needed for the job.
Even with Moss's odd hesitation and uncertainty, sheer brute force coupledwith good mental co-ordination could work wonders. 

The half hour was only slightly past when he pulled the control chair up andcut the switch in again. There was the usual lag, and then the power needlebegan climbing, took a sudden lurch, and settled down at the highest mark onthe dial. There was a smooth high drone in the air that continued minute afterminute, spelling out power in unbelievable quantities and fully under control. 

"Okay, sir," Boyd said finally. "We've done it, and I'm glad you were whereyou could see it." 

The other figure stirred uncomfortably, then looked up at him with a soundthat held amusement. "Are you, Pickleface? You didn't seem to want me where Icould see it before." 

Something that should have been the pit of Boyd's stomach went numb, and hiseyes shifted erratically out of focus. Gulping sounds came from his vocalapparatus, but they made no sense. Why should they? There was no sense left inthe world itself. 

Something that approximated a soft laugh came from the other. "Dad told me Iwasn't to let you know until after the experiment and warned me you mightthink I was Dr. Moss. You should have heard the fight I put up to get here!"
Again she giggled. "Poor old Pickleface: Don't you like me, now that I'mhairless and ugly?" 

"Joan!" The numbness left him in a rush, and he dived for her, only to realizewhat the loss of lips meant. "Joan, you crazy little fool! So that's what Iheard before the explosion?" 

Her voice was flat, as usual, but he sensed mockery and guilt in her words.
"Mm-hmm. I sneaked in and hid before it began, behind the transformer bank.
That's what saved me, I guess. From what they told me, we landed not threefeet apart, though I didn't come to until I was in City Hospital. Fatherthought that if you had a chance at life, I should have the same. Mad at me,
Thorne?" 

Even without lips, he showed her he wasn't. 

Later, when some of the shouting was over and Abbot had gone in to stand overthe big shell and gaze fondly at the power indicator, they found Meisner alone 


in the office. The doctor made room for the two big bodies, grinning at thempaternally. 

"So it's married my model patient and my not-so-model one shall be, eh? Abbothas told me already." 

Boyd relaxed on the seat, realizing that his mind had refused to rest and bepeaceful for months. It was almost a novelty. "Married we shall," he answered,
"though I suppose it's mostly a formality with us. Funny thing, Abbot seemswilling enough now, for some reason." 

"That isn't so funny, is it, Papa Meisner? Dr. Moss left you his interests inthis, and you're almost rich now. Anyway, just picture poor Dad trying to getanyone else to marry me now!" Joan twisted one of his big fingerspossessively. "This time, Mr. Thorne Boyd, there'll be no convenient accidentsto save you. I won't let you out of my sight until it's over." 

Meisner patted Boyd's metal chest. "Me, I think I shall also see 

there are no more delays. So. And be maybe your best man. Life is not SO bad,
eh?" 

"With twenty-four hours a day for years and years together and never a grayhair or a wrinkle?" Joan kicked her heels together and giggled. "EvenPickleface should be happy now." 

The change had made no difference in her, Boyd thought, wondering when shewould tire of the nickname; well, if she kept using it, he'd have to learn tolike it yet. No, life wasn't so bad. There was work for him now, with men whorespected him, a rough friendship with Meisner and Tom, and most important ofall, companionship with his own kind. 

"I'm growing rather attached to this body," he admitted. "Except for onething. I can't smoke. A cigarette is too small for my air vents, and anyholder I've tried is liable to get stuck in them or else it scratches some ofthe filters off. If I hold it in front, I get just enough nicotine totantalize me. Think you can fix it?" 

Meisner chuckled and winked at Joan. "Never satisfied, this man of yours, Ithink. Well, we can fix that, maybe." He held out a silvered case. 'Try acigar." 

Boyd grunted. He hadn't thought of that! 

The year 1940 began with the return of the two stories I'd left with FredPohl. He'd decided that there wasn't anything wrong with them, but that theyjust weren't what he wanted. I felt rather relieved, since I'd discovered thatAstonishing was going to pay only half a cent a word. There were manymagazines that paid even less, but the writers in their articles for Writers'Digest were claiming that one cent a word should be the minimum. 

I saw nothing wrong with competing against professional writers for a spot inthe market. But I did feel a little uneasy about doing, so for what theyseemed to regard as "scab" rates—despite the fact that I knew many of themwere accepting such rates. 

I expected to do a lot less writing during the year. I'd learned from the 


rather corny ending on "Reincarnate" that forcing ideas was not a good thing,
in my case. My ideas needed time to ripen—and if some withered away during thematuring process, they were better left unwritten. I still feel this is true;
and many of my later stories would have been improved by being filed away inmy head until I felt ready to do them. 

But I wrote a little, mostly when the urge struck me without my 

hastening it. "The Pipes of Pan" was an old plot that had begun with a vagueidea that Pan might appear on Wall Street—tied in with the ancient and modernmeaning of panic. Eventually, it changed until I was interested in whathappened to a god when his last worshiper dies and he has to go to work. Itwrote easily to 6,000 words, and Campbell let me know he liked it better thananything I'd done for quite a while. 

There was an unexpected bonus, too. Phil Stong wrote to say he'd pay tendollars for the right to include it in an anthology to be entitled The OtherWorlds. In those days, the idea of having a story of fantasy put between hardcovers was an impossible dream. It was unheard-of. The price didn't matter,
but the free copy of the book was enough to make sure I agreed. I had sold allrights to Street and Smith—a' normal arrangement then—but they were verygracious about releasing any right for a specific purpose, so I wrote Stong anenthusiastic acceptance. 

"Dark Mission" was one of those ideas that didn't seem to require much time toripen. I think I wrote it within a few weeks after first getting the idea. Itinvolved a man who seems to be injured in some rocket accident and deprived ofhis memory. But he has two driving urges—one to avoid any skin contact withother men, and the other to find and destroy our first spaceship. In the end,
it turns out he's from Mars, where a plague is killing them all off, and he'scome here to prevent our going there and contracting the illness. It was apretty simple idea, but Campbell paid $80 for the 6,400 words. 

Then I got trapped into far more work than I expected to do in writing. JamesBeard, the fantasy fan and myth authority, sent an idea to Campbell which hethought I should try. It was worked out in great detail, and looked easy. So Isimply turned the outline into fiction. Campbell promptly sent it back with along letter saying the story lacked feeling and conviction. 

I know now that I should never collaborate. My stories tend to be prettypersonal things, and my working methods don't fit well with most otherwriters. But I had taken on the responsibility; I'd agreed to split theproceeds with Beard, and that meant there had to be such proceeds. 

So I sat down and thought it all through, following Campbell's letter. Hecomplained that my lead character was both dull and foolish—and he was right.
So I had to pick a more interesting one. This time I picked the safety of anarrator—an old woman who saw what went on, but who could be an interestingcharacter by herself. 

That came back with a note indicating the story was now better, but it stilldidn't have much feeling in the areas where it needed the most intensity. 

And so finally, I began to realize a lot about viewpoint in a story —the mostvaluable lesson I think I ever learned. I hunted through the story to find theone person who was most deeply affected by the events and who was central tothem. It came out to 6,400 words, and I split the $80 with Beard, so I didn't 


make much on it. But even then I knew it was a useful exercise. Since then,
I've never had much trouble finding the right viewpoint, so all the work on"Carillon of Skulls" was well worthwhile. 

It appeared under the pen name of Philip James, using half of Philip St. Johnand half of James Beard. Why I didn't simply list both our names is more thanI can remember. 

9. 
Carillon of Skulls 

(by Philip James) 

Ann Muller ran a pale hand down the massive bole of the single oak, standingout in forsaken grandeur over the ruins of Lefferts Park, and gripped tightlyon a shaggy outcropping of its bark. Through a hole in the tattered leavesoverhead she saw angry clouds scudding across the sky and watched the lastthreads of the moon vanish, leaving the park a pit of sordid black. Sheshuddered and old words slipped through her teeth. 

"How long wilt Thou forget me, O Lord? Forever? How long wilt Thou hide Thyface from me? My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?" 

"Strange words from you, dearie." The voice piped up from the blackness nearher, ending in a cackling hiccup. A thin shaft of moonlight trickled downagain, showing an old crone with dirty gray hair and the ragged shreds offormer beauty still clinging to the reddened face. "Strange names you'recalling on this night, I'm thinking. Hee!" 

Ann dropped her hand from the tree and nodded faintly. "Perhaps. You're late,
Mother Brian. Did you find the remedy?" 

"That I did, and simple enough, too. Dried dust of balsam needles, the booksaid, and I have it with me. Here's your bag with it, though I'd not open thesame, was I you. And the bullet. What you'll be doing, though—" 

"Your pay," the girl suggested, stripping a curious green-set ring from herfinger. "It's all I have now." 

Mother Brian—Madame Olga, the seeress, she called herself now— pushed itaside. "Then you keep it, dearie. I've whiskey money this night, and you usedto be a good girl, once. It's a long memory only that brings Madame Olga intothis God-forsaken place, not pay. Heel A sweet girl, if a bit headstrong andfoolish before—" 

"Yes. Thank you, Mother Brian. What night is it?" 

"Friday." She bit the word out reluctantly, and the girl jerked back at it,
her fingers trembling as she caught at the oak bark again. In the dark, theold dealer in spells stretched forth a solicitous hand. 

"Friday! Are you sure?" Ann's eyes strained against the darkness, and sawtruth on the other's face. "Then that's why he was with me when I woke. Hedoesn't trust me now, but whispers his orders in my ear while I'm sleeping." 

"Lot of good it'll do him this night. They've a police guard all about the 


place so only them as know the old tunnel can squeeze through the bulls andget in. It's an empty night for him, the slimy thing. For a thimble of smoke,
I'd be—" 

"No." Ann interrupted again, wearily. She was strangely tired, and theassurance of Madame Olga failed to bring hope with it. "No, they wouldn'tbelieve you, and he'd—hunt. You'd better leave now, Mother Brian. He mightcome." 

"Hee! He'll be busy still." But she turned away and went creaking out throughthe gloom with a grunted farewell. 

Ann slumped against the tree, noting that the rift in the clouds was only abrief flash this time, and that it promised to be the last that night. But hereyes were accustomed to the dark, and she watched the old figure hobble away,
down into a weed-grown hole, and out of sight toward safety. 

Then she twitched her shoulders and stepped out from under the tree, pickingher way through the tangle around. At one time Lef-ferts Park had been themecca of the amusement-minded, with theater, roller-skating rink, picnicgrounds, and places where barkers 

announced the admission price was "only a thin dime, folks, the tay-yenth pahtof a dollah." But that had been years before. 

Now weeds and sumac had overgrown it, crowding against the few deserted beech-
trees. Where the wooden recreation buildings and flashy theater had been,
there was only an irregular series of pock-marks in the ground, cellars halffilled in by dirty cans, bottles, and general debris, or crumbling foundationwalls, overgrown with a mossy fungus of some kind. Charred boards and cindersof old dead fires showed that the last occupants had been bums seeking itsweedy privacy for the night. 

Ann picked her way with uncannily sure feet through the maze, hardly glancingat the tangle about her. She was thinking of other things, chiefly of him andhis reasons, and her thoughts were barely rational. If only the control wereless complete, so that she could pierce through to his object, or rememberdetails, if— But there were too many ifs. It was Friday night, when hiscommands were always strongest; what those commands were or had been was hazy,
but the repressed memories in the back of her mind filled her with a dreadthat was greater because of its vague uncertainty. 

She skirted the roller-skating pavilion, an area treacherous with coveredholes, and slipped quickly past what had been the Apollo Theater. Across towna bell sounded, laboring under the twelve Strokes of midnight, and yellowishlight began to shine through the back windows of the theater. They weregetting ready for another performance, apparently, though the marquee wasstill either missing or hidden by the shadows. Probably her duties would leadher there before the night finished. 

The gateway leading from the park was in front of her then, and she looked outcautiously. Mother Brian had been right; two police were moving slowly up anddown in front. Some of their words spilled back to her. 

" Tis the very broth of hell's kettle in there, MacDougall, I'm think* Ing.
I'd put face to the Old One himself before I'd be sleeping in there, sure asmy name's O'Halloran." 


"Aye." 

"Yet fools there are, and newspapermen, like as not the one under two names.
Devil a bit of it do I like." 

"Aye." 

Back in the park, a shrill burble of sound keened out in what might have beena laugh or a shriek of derision. O'Halloran hunched his big shoulders andscowled in its general direction. "Faith, what a 

noise, not human at all, at all. Well, 'twas probably the wind a-howlingthrough a hole. No need to be looking again for what made it, d'you think?
Better to stick to our beat." 

"Aye." 

The girl turned back aimlessly, still mumbling over the dark suspicions in hermind. That shriek had been his voice, directed at her for loitering. Ann knew,
but what good were his orders if no one entered the park? Of course, there wasno one there, so she had nothing to fear. He—but who was he? Something probedat her mind, and vanished, leaving her standing there uncertainly. She knewwhere she was, but how had she got there, and why? What was she doing at nightin Lefferts Park? She was sure she had known an instant before, but now thememory eluded her. 

Then she was conscious of being cold, and the faint smell of wood-smoke comingto her from the back of the park. Someone must have a fire there that wouldoffer warmth and companionship until her vagrant memory returned. She shiveredand moved forward toward it, now picking out her way carefully, and stumblinga little over the tangled ruins under her feet. Down in a hollow beyond her,
sheltered by a corner of a wall that still stood, she caught a flicker ofyellow light and hastened toward it, drawing the inconspicuous dark suitcloser to her thin, small body, and clutching tightly on the odd handbag,
decorated with bright beads and closed at the top by means of a drawstring. 

There was a man at the fire, she saw now, and hesitated. But he was welldressed and pleasant-faced as he bent over to light his cigarette from thefire and put on more wood. As he straightened, he caught sight of her from thecorner of his eye and jerked around in surprise. "Hello, there," he calleduncertainly, staring at her doubtfully. But her large gray eyes, contrastingwith the white face, must have been reassuring, for he motioned her forward.
"Care to join me?" 

"Please, yes ... I hope you don't mind." She shouldn't be here, talking to astrange man, but until the vanished thread of memory returned, there waslittle else to do. "It was so dark and cold out there alone, and I saw yourfire. I'll go away, if you wish." 

He smiled quickly at that. "No, glad to have you. Coffee? There. Afraid therock is the best seat I can offer you." As she settled down beside the fire,
he smiled again, and she was no longer afraid of him; only of the dark outsidethe rim of light thrown by the fire. Then, 

suddenly he frowned. "How'd you get in here? I thought the police wereguarding the whole place." 


"Were they? I didn't know. Nobody stopped me. . . . And how'd you get here,
then?" 

"Oh, they know I'm here; got a permit from the captain to stay here and seewhat happens for my newspaper—the Kendicon Daily Leader. I'm Harry Chapman,
Miss—" 

"Ann Muller." 

"Hmm. Well, anyway, White—the editor—sent me down here. We couldn't find anytrace or clue of the heads that have been missing, so he figured it would atleast make a good suspense story, and might even trap the maniac who'sresponsible." At her uncertain look, he stopped. "You know about the missingheads, don't you?" 

Was she supposed to? There was something vaguely familiar about It, butnothing clear. "No." 

"Don't read the papers, eh? Well, briefly it's like this. Every week for thepast four weeks, there's been a man killed here. Every Saturday morning thepolice find a body—but no head. They've hunted for the missing heads, butthere's not even a speck of blood left to ihow where they went. Either somemaniac's loose here, or there's black magic—which we don't believe. But nobodycan find any traces." 

Ann nodded, poking at the fire with a stick and only half listening. "I musthave heard something about it, I guess, but not much. What happened?" 

"That's the catch; nobody knows. The first three were bums, probably justhiding out here for the night, but the third was Dean Mallory . . . had anorchestra playing at the Dug-Out. At a guess, I'd say he stumbled here inlooking for atmosphere for a modern thing he was writing, and it got him. Hishead was sheared off as clean as a cut of meat from the butcher. . . . HopeI'm not frightening you?" * 

"No." Whatever reaction came to her from Chapman's words, it wasn't fear,
though there had been a tinge of fright since the moment when she firstnoticed the park about her. Her eyes wandered out Into the shadows and back tohim quickly. "They think it's a maniac?" 

"All except a drunken old fortune-teller named Olga. She's been pestering thepolice sergeant with tales of the supernatural. Claims it's a nis. And I thinkhe about half believes her, judging by the stress he lays on the absence ofrats from the ruins, and the cross he made 

me wear around my neck." Harry tapped his shirt to indicate the faint bulge ofthe tiny object. "You know, it's lucky you found me; running around here alonemight be bad. More coffee?" 

"No, thanks." Funny the way the flickering light on his face made it seemquixotical and boyish. Ann slipped closer to him. "What's a nis, some kind ofevil ghost? I... I've heard the name somewhere, I think." 

"Mmm. I had to look it up in a book." He bit off the comer of a cigarettepackage, pulled one out, and lighted it without disturbing the arm on thestones behind her. Where his fingers touched her back, little dancing tingles 


went tripping up as he continued. "Seems a nis is someone who was toointerested in life and too contrary to die, so he turns into a half-demon,
decides on what he wants to do and does it, not bothering about normal menanymore. According to the book, there used to be one who stole colors fromliving people to paint his pictures, leaving them with eyes black as a stoat'sand hair like the feathers of a crow. But nisses can't stand sunlight, so itkilled him when he tried to steal the colors from the sunlight." 

Ann stirred restlessly. "Good always triumphs in the stories, doesn't it? AndI think you used the wrong plural." 

"Probably. There's another story with a somewhat neater ending, if you'd careto hear it. ... Mmm. One of them took up lodging in a valley hidden fromcivilization and went about building up a choir. He swiped the voices from allthe yokels around and played on them like an organ, thundering his music downfrom the hills in a great symphony. Naturally, without voices, the people werestruck dumb. Then word got out, and musicians began stemming in from the farcorners of the earth to listen. But so many who came left their voices behindin the valley that in time they stopped coming, and even the location of thevalley was lost to man's memory." 

"Rather horrible, those legends, aren't they?" She stretched out suddenly andgot to her feet, restlessness stirring in her. "Let's go somewhere to a show;
I'll pay my way. At least, it's more cheerful than sitting out here allnight." 

Harry glanced at his watch. "It's rather late. What show'd you have in mind?" 

"Apollo, I guess." What other show would they see, with the Apollo only a fewyards away across the park? There was no point to going clear across town toanother. "Just cheap vaudeville, of course, but better than usual this week;
at least everybody says so." 

Chapman made no comment, but came to his feet quickly, one 

hand sliding back to his pocket and clutching at something there; in theflickering light, it looked like the handle of a gun. His actions weresuddenly unfriendly and odd. She turned at his motion, leading the way, and hefollowed a few feet behind. She could feel his eyes riveted on the nape of herneck, and hear him muttering something that sounded suspiciously like"maniac," but she shook her head and stopped puzzling about it, heading towardthe theater. From the dark ahead, a gurgling ululation sounded. There wassomething about it—where had she heard that before? 

"Lord!" Harry's gasp behind her cut through her thoughts and brought them backto him. "Look! It's there!" 

His fingers were pointing ahead to the building that reared up from thetangled ground, its marquee blazing with light, announcing the stellarattraction of Loto, the Incomparable. The lights spelled Out Apollo Theater inno uncertain letters. 

"Of course it's there. What did you expect?" His odd surprise was amusing,
though it annoyed her a little. "Shall we go in?" 

"Listen, I may be crazy, but O'Halloran and I went over the grounds thismorning, and it wasn't there then. I even dug part of that sign out of the 


wreckage. There hasn't been an Apollo Theater for forty years. You'll betelling me next I'm the headhunting maniac." He stared about hastily, and hisfingers clutched more tightly on the object in his pocket. "What's the game?" 

He was being silly about something. Perhaps it would be best to forget abouttaking him in, she thought, then felt a pressing urgency to have him accompanyher. "It's always been there, Harry," she assured him soothingly. "You musthave been imagining things by the fire; people do that sometimes." 

"Mmm. All right, I'm crazy. ... I must be, unless I'm asleep Tay the fire.'
Okay, in we go. This wouldn't make good copy, but it may^ be interesting—
maybe." He strode forward grimly, glancing back at her once as if expectingher to be gone. She smiled at him, but there was no lightening of his face. 

Suppose he was right? He seemed so positive, and there were alarming gaps inher memory. Something had happened before she found herself in the park, butshe could recall none of it. And this building, standing in the wildernessabout, didn't make sense. She glanced at the sign again, studying the billing.
Loto, the Incomparable. Who and what was Loto? Harry was back at her sidethen, and she clutched his arm. 

"Let's not go in; I've changed my mind. There's something wrong here; I canfeel it." 

"You're darned right there is. They aren't charging amusement tax, for onething. Still trying to tell me I'm crazy?" 

"I don't know. I can't remember what I should about all this; there's a blankin my head." 

"Mmm. You're a queer kid, Ann, and I should take you to O'Hal-loran, but I'mgoing to trust you instead. Maybe there's a cog slipped in your memory—
amnesia; we'll see about it later." He took her hand and the friendliness shewanted from him was back, though determination pulled his face in stern lines.
"Come on, we're in this now, and whatever it is, I'm seeing it through. Itwouldn't surprise me to find the missing heads somewhere at the bottom of it.
Game to try it?" 

Ann tossed her head, though a prickling of her skin seemed like a warning, andthey passed into the lobby. There was a moldy smell in the air, and a look ofcheap opulence to the place that dated it. The unsmiling usher greeted them,
his face masked in shadows, and led them down the middle aisle and to fancyplush-covered seats at the edge. The place was dimly lighted, probably by gaslamps, and the shadows spewed over the audience and up to the stage, whichstood out in a contrasting glare of brilliance, though the curtain was stilldown. The musty odor was stronger, and the hissing buzz of the audiencealready seated carried a note that was half familiar, but entirely unpleasant. 

Harry nudged her. "Notice anything queer about the audience? No? Well, try andpick out any details. All I can see are dark blobs. I can't focus on them—
might as well be a veil over the whole place— and I don't like it, Ann. Maybeyou shouldn't be here." 

"Shh. I'm here now." She caught his hand. It was nice to be worried over.
Whatever her past, she was sure there had been too little of that. "Curtain'sgoing up." 


"Yeah." 

There was a fanfare from the orchestra pit and a blurred announcement from thestage, followed by a quartet, all with long moustaches and dressed in tightpants, who came out and sang sentimental ballads, ending on the sad song of"Nelly, the Bartender's Daughter," unexpurgated. Ann had the impression thatit was old to her, even the disgust at the cheap words. Harry grunted, butsaid nothing. 

A team doing stunts on roller skates to jingling ragtime came next, followedby a man who juggled little balls that looked like glass 

eyes. Ann was still puzzling over the feeling of familiarity with the acts.
Harry sat with his eyes glued on the stage, and his nerves sticking out allover. A hush settled over the audience, and the stage lights cut to a centerspot, coming from the wings, and leaving two lanes of black around the lightedsection. 

Offstage a ratty voice announced the main feature with unctuous pride. "TheGreat Loto, with his Carillon of Skulls, the Delight of the Crowned Heads ofEurope, in Person. Rasputin himself was proud to honor the art of theIncomparable Loto. Ladeezngents, we now bring you a new and hitherto UnplayedSymphony of his own composition. I give you—Loto!" 

A full roll from the drums brought Loto out, dressed like a clown and carryinga large, covered object that must surely be his instrument. But his chalk-
white face and long, red mouth were entirely unfunny, and the tapering fingersof his hands might have belonged to an Inca priest, adept at tearing theliving heart out of a sacrifice. When he removed the covering from hisinstrument, it was revealed to be in truth a long line of skulls, suspendedfrom a shining bar by small chains. The effect was appalling, and a lowshudder of expectancy ran through the audience. 

Loto was a good showman; the skulls went into the lane of light, so thatattention was focused on them and his fingers, which held two small hammersshaped at the ends like teeth. The rest of him was shrouded in shadow, exceptfor the thin white oval of his face. Harry twisted in his seat and caught atAnn's shoulder. 

"Third skull from the end!" His breath came whistling between his teeth, harshagainst her ear. "Notice the bulge over the eye sockets. If it didn't belongto Dean Mallory, I'll eat it!" 

Ann looked, and sickness swept over her as something in her head snapped. Sheremembered noticing—long ago, it seemed—how Mallory's brow bulged out, and nowshe saw the same on the skulk So that was what he wanted! And now, under hiscommand of the night, shrouded in forgetfulness, she had brought another. 

"Harry!" She fought down her qualms and forced out the words. "Now I remember.
We've—" 

"Hush, he's starting. I've got to think this out." His arm on her shoulderheld her down, and the weakness that had engulfed her kept her from throwingit aside. She turned her eyes numbly to the stage, and the first of Loto'smusic clamped her down completely, leaving only numbness and fear. 

Loto was swaying back and forth in the semidarkness behind the 


skulls, tapping out the notes as on a xylophone. Mostly they were in a minorkey, but interwoven with majors in a fashion both fascinating and horrible.
This piece was worse than the others she had heard; it should never have beenwritten, but it fitted the instrument, and there was a frightful personalityto each individual note that seemed to rouse the audience to a frenzy. Lotoran down to a long wail and began developing a rising crescendo, going higherand higher, until the air seemed to shriek under the torture of the impact. 

Suddenly he stopped with one hammer in the air above his head, needing stillone savage higher note to complete it; but the last skull was missing. Thechain which should have held it dangled there, but there was only a screw anda small shred of bone left. A sigh welled up from the audience, and Lototurned to face them, his hammer still in the air. Slowly his feral eyes swungover the rows of seats, lingering just a moment on each, while he seemed tostudy. 

Ann shuddered, knowing what was to come and powerless to stop it as the eyesswung slowly over the seats and toward them. Harry was staring toward thestage, too tense to notice her efforts to attract his attention. Then Loto'seyes found them and lingered, swept sideways, up and down, and came back toHarry. He nodded, lowered his hammer softly, and strode firmly down the stepsinto the orchestra pit, while the whole audience swung to keep their eyes onhim. 

Then her hand slid over the beads on her bag and sudden hope shocked her backto control. It would not be this time! Not this man! She dug her fingers intoHarry's arm, tightening her grip until he jerked around. "Quick, before hereaches you. If I help now, will you help me later?" 

"Of course," he answered, still studying Loto from the comer of his eyes. "ButI can take care of Loto. I'm armed." 

She shook her head urgently. "No, you mustn't. The others had guns and knives.
Here, take my bag—here! Breathe some of the balsam needle dust into your noselike snuff and throw the rest toward Loto. Meet me the same place tomorrownight. . . . Now, quickly!" 

Would he never take it! His hand hovered halfway between the useless gun andthe bag while his eyes shuttled uncertainly to her, back to Loto, and then tothe purse. But some of her sincerity must have impressed him, for he finallyreached out impulsively and opened the bag. Loto was at the row in which theysat as he breathed in on the dust and tossed a handful toward the advancingfigure. 

There was a strangled sound as it spread out in the musty air, and all theblurred outlines wavered. Ann felt something catch at her breath and gostinging down into her lungs. She crumpled down and lost consciousness with atired little sigh of satisfaction; tonight there would be no headless corpsein Lefferts Park. 

With the contrariness of nature, there was a glorious moon the next night, butAnn was in no mood to appreciate it. He had not appeared, and she wonderedwhy, unless the effects of the night before were still on him. Surely he musthave seen that it was her bag the balsam dust came from, and he was not theforgiving kind. But she was too tired to care much. 


What had Harry thought, and would he keep his appointment? Once, years before,
there had been another—but that was past. The Apollo was only a weed-grownbasement tonight, but she gave it a wide berth; there was no way of tellingwhere he might be hiding. Then a faint smell of smoke reached her, and shehalf smiled and quickened her pace a little. Harry had remembered. 

"Hiss! Annie, lass." It was Madame Olga's voice, and Ann stopped to let thehobbling figure catch up with her. "Och, now, I've been chasing you all overthe place, I have. I've almost run my legs off my poor old body, dearie." 

Half annoyed, Ann waited until the old crone caught her breath. "What is it,
Mother Brian?" 

"Hee! I'm a fool, dearie—a fool, no less—poking my nose where it's no businessa-being. But I looked in on you last night, and a rare sight it was, seeinghim get the surprise he did. A-standing there on them old stones, makingnoises fit for the Old One, while the two of you sat like ones bewitched onthe dirty old wall. Though I'm sorry you learned of the things he'd have youdo; 'twas ever my thought that you'd best never find that out." 

She thrust a dirty paper sack into Ann's hands. "Your young man forgot them,
and O'Halloran—the dumb mick—never saw a thing but the lad asleeping in theruins. Most smart and proper was the tongue-lashing he gave the boy, too. Hee!
You'll find your bag, your bullet. . . which'll fit; I tried it... and his gunthere in the bag. I was after them as soon as the sun upped in the earlymorning." 

"Thank you, Mother Brian. You're kind." The girl fiddled uncomfortably withthe sack, and stared out toward the source of the smoke. Madame Olga cackled. 

"All right, be off with you, dearie, since you're wanting the sight 

of him. But keep the two ears of you open. I had the cards out this day, and Iread things in them that'll surprise you, mayhap." 

She chuckled again and made off quickly before Ann could ask what thesurprises were. But the girl wasted no time in wondering. Tucking the bagunder her arm, she moved forward toward Harry's fire, hastily inserting thecartridge Madame Olga had made into the gun. Unless her plans went wrong,
another morning should find release for her. Then, as she neared the fire, shecaught the rich voice of O'Halloran and saw two bulky figures beside that ofthe reporter. Moving soundlessly, she slid into the shelter of a tangle ofscrub growth and waited. 

"Kept thinking I'd heard the name," O'Halloran was saying, "though where youheard it, devil knows. But sure enough, this morning it come to me. Used to bea girl by that name poking around here, looking for something; claimed she wasbusy about historical research or something. But that was twenty, twenty-fiveyears ago, and never a word has been heard of her since; disappeared all of asudden, like she came. Little, dark, queer thing she was." 

Harry nodded vaguely. "Probably not the person I'm thinking of, though itfits. ... I still think the center of what's going on here is the Apollo." 

"Might be. I grew up hereabouts, lad, and there was ever men-strong, God-
fearing men they was, too—who'd have devil a thing to do with the place, evenin broad daylight. Sure, being a kid, I wanted to see for myself, what with 


the skating rink and all that, but I was never allowed it. Well, don't bedreaming again this night, lad. Come on, MacDougall, we belong outside." 

"Aye." They lumbered off, flashing their lights about nervously. 

Ann waited a few minutes more, while Harry glanced at his watch and fidgetedon the rough stone seat, then slipped out of her concealment and was besidehim before he realized his waiting was over. 

"So I didn't dream up this date, then?" For a man of almost thirty, theembarrassment on his face was almost too boyish, but Ann decided it wascharming in a way. He suffered from another acute case of fidgets before hewent on. "Look, Ann, I feel like a heel for going to sleep on you last night.
Darn fool stunt, and I can't even remember what happened." 

"Sleep?" 

"Yeah. Right after I finished the nis yarn, I guess . . . wasn't it? Ugh, andwhat nightmares I had. Walking around in my sleep and letting O'Halloran findme in the ex-Apollo!" He grimaced sheep


ishly. "If I hadn't found your footprints around here, I'd have thought thewhole thing was imagination. When did you leave?" 

The temptation to continue the pretense of his sleeping was almostoverpowering, but cold logic choked back the impulse, even as she started tofollow it. He was still somewhere near, and there was no time for small talk.
"After you threw the dust," she answered, holding out the automatic to him.
"Here, Mo . . . Madame Olga found this and sent it to you." 

"After I—" He disregarded the gun, his face freezing into a tight mask ofsuspicion. "That's ridiculous! I looked over the Apollo as soon as O'Halloranwoke me, and it's in ruins. What's the game?" 

"Only the truth, Harry. Would I remember your dreams—the dust, the carillon,
how you were unable to see the audience clearly? You saw the Apollo through myeyes, and I'm . . . But you promised to help me." 

He nodded reluctantly, only partially convinced. "If it's true, I did. But—
hell, what is it you want?" 

Ann held out the gun again, trembling a little, now that the moment hadactually come. The carefully rehearsed explanation she had planned in advanceleft her now and she stumbled for words. And from across the park, a quaveringshriek keened out, warning her there was no time to waste. 

"Well?" Chapman's voice was impatient. 

"There's a silver bullet in it now," she began, and hesitated. Then, becauseshe could find no other way, she blurted it out in a rush. This acting as alure under temporary forgetfulness must stop, and there was no other escape.
"I want you to use it on me, Harry! It . . . oh, I can't explain it, but youmust. You promised!" 

Blankness crowded the grimness and suspicion from his face, only to vanishabruptly. He grabbed her shoulder and began shaking it, shouting at her. "Ann,
are you crazy? Of all the damned nonsenseJ Put up that gun. And if you try to 


use it yourself, I'll spank you— Soundly!" 

So she had failed; the human taboos she had almost forgotten were strongerthan his promise. But it had seemed so right, so obvious to her! Wearily sheslipped from him and back toward the tangled hinterland. "All right. I can'tuse it anyway; that's part of his commands. Good night, Harry!" 

"Wait. No you don't!" One of his arms caught her as she turned •nd swung herback. "You're going to explain this mess before you go. And whose commands areyou talking about?" 

Her futile struggles against him were cut short as a voice oozed out of theshadows behind them. Still dressed in his clown's clothing, Loto slipped outfrom a clump of weeds. "I believe," he said unctuously, "that I am the one sherefers to. I'm her master, even when she tries to disobey me." He was rubbinghis hooked fingers over the edge of a curved saber and there was a sickly grinon his chalky face. "Ah, what a lovely skull shape, man-thing. I admire it." 

Ann saw Harry tense for a spring as Loto lifted the heavy blade and knew hewould never make it. Up went the blade, twisting a little, curved in the air,
and started down! Then the scream that had been stuck in her throat rippedout, and she felt one of her hands, sill clutching the gun, go up to knockagainst the blade, just as Harry began his leap. But the saber continued down.
She heard it thwack as it struck and saw Harry crumple into a heap. Loto movedforward. 

"Stop!" Her throat was frozen shut so that the word was only a whisper, butLoto heard it and paused. 

His voice was filled with furious arrogance. "You dare! One side, wench!
You've been useful, but this is too much for my patience. Drop that harmlesstoy and leave me!" 

"The harmless toy," she warned him quietly, "is loaded with a silver bullet." 

Loto checked himself. "Silver! You fool, you little fool! If you dared to useit, you couldn't go back to your place without me, and the morning would findyou here. You know what that means?" 

"Death, I suppose, when the sunlight touches me." 

"Death!" He wrenched the word out and started forward again. "And anunpleasant one, I assure you. Give me that gun." 

As he reached for it, her fingers seemed to contract of their own volition,
and the automatic coughed once. Disbelief flickered over Loto's face. He threwout one arm, easing slowly to the ground, his eyes boring into her. "You . . .
you love the man; I should have known." 

Blood was trickling from his mouth, and he coughed his throat clear, forcinghimself half erect. 'Then, Ann Muller, I give back your womanhood before I...
die. I revoke the curse. And the man-thing ... is stunned ... no more. You—"
Something that was either a smile or a sneer slit his thin mouth and wasreplaced by horror as he pitched forward limply. 

Ann stumbled back into the shadow of a tree. The curse was gone, as Loto hadsaid—she had felt the change as he spoke; but the 


picture of him softening under the shadow of death was too much for her tograsp. 

"Harry!" she called, wondering fearfully whether the last words had beentruthful. 

They had. Harry was coming toward her as she turned, rubbing his temples.
"It's all right, Ann. Only the flat of the blade, thanks to you. I came tojust as you shot and heard the rest." 

"Then you know?" 

"Hush, it doesn't matter now. We'll forget all this nightmare." Faintly in thedarkness, she saw his eyes smiling down at her, and a glow swept up andenveloped her like a soft wind. "But O'Halloran must have heard the shot andhe can't find you here—too hard to explain. Know someplace to hide?" 

"There's an old hidden tunnel near the Apollo." 

"Good. I'll tell O'Halloran I shot the maniac and phone the paper. Then . . ."
His lips brushed light across her forehead and he turned her around and pushedher gently away. "When it's safe, I'll find you. Now, off with you." 

Somehow her feet found their way through the tangle, but her thoughts weredancing on ahead, no longer bothered by Loto's strange reversal of manner orthe quick telescoping of events. Ahead, the Apollo loomed up, its naked ruinsnow nothing but a monument to a dead past, and behind the wind brought thefaint sound of excited voices. She stopped beside the old oak, caressing itswrinkled bark, then turned toward the tunnel, slowly, as the emotions deniedher so long pulsed hotly through her. So intent on them was she that shealmost tripped over a dim-burning lantern before she noticed Madame Olgasquatting in the tunnel. 

"Mother Brian-" 

"I know, dearie." The seeress rose slowly to her feet, her eyes on the rottendoor that covered the entrance. "I heard, and 'twas a good thing to see him a-
dying, may the Old One carry his foul soul away!*' 

"Shh!" Ann couldn't hate him now, not with the curse so newly gone from her.
"Mother Brian, I'm a woman again. A woman!" 

"That I know, too, and the words you've been hearing from the boy. But did thelad see your face—did he that, Annie child?" 

"I don't suppose so; we were in the shadows. But what's wrong with that?" Inthe old woman's eyes there was a glint of tears before they dropped again, andsomething that sent a cold lance of fear down her back. Ann clutched at thebent shoulders. "Mother Brian, is there—? There's nothing wrong? There can'tbe!" 

For answer, the crooked old fingers groped in a dirty bag and came out with abroken mirror. "When you've done with it, I'll be waiting at the other end,"
Madame Olga said gently. "Don't be waiting too long." 

She went hobbling off hastily and Ann raised the mirror, studying it with 


dawning comprehension. There had been no kindness in Loto's last gesture! Evendying, he had planned that time, held in abeyance during the years histrickery had held her, should finally catch up with her. And Harry! But he wasyoung enough to forget, though he might wonder for a time. 

The cracked mirror slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, itswork finished. Then, with a low moan, she turned slowly down the tunnel, awayfrom all she wanted in life. For the face in the mirror had been that of a 
woman of fifty, without even a trace of youthfulness to match her unchangedemotions. 

I started another story almost immediately after the collaboration was finallysuccessful. I suspect that I felt some need to get back on my feet and wantedto get the taste of the previous experience out of my mouth. 

I'd read in some book or article on writing that a good way to get an idea isto look for some obvious and accepted truth, and then use the opposite idea asthe basis for a story. It's one of the numerous gimmicks to make plottingeasier—and like most of them, one that probably is harder to master generallythan the art of direct plotting. Most stories based on such gimmicks seemstrained and contrived, anyhow. But I remembered it when a crippled friend wascomplaining that space travel would never mean anything to people like him,
because no handicapped person would ever be permitted to enter a rocket. 

The story was easy to write, and Campbell bought it. But this time there wasno bonus on its 6,400 words. I wasn't writing enough to make my nameimportant, and the story was what he called a standard tear-jerker, whichdidn't deserve a bonus. 

He was planning to run it in the same issue with the long-overdue "Stars LookDown" and he needed a different by-line on it How about using Philip St. John? 

Well, this was a highly sentimental story, and the St. John name was supposedto be used for stories that were not sentimental. But I couldn't think of 
another name on the spur of the moment 

I now consider the use of multiple pen names bad business for a beginningwriter. Generally, a man's own proper name is the best for a number of legaland business reasons of convenience. But there are sometimes good reasons foradopting something else. Not however, for a whole raft of names. If a story isbelow par, a wise beginner should scrap it, or put it aside until he can do itproperly. If it's good, he should use his normal writing name on it. He needsall the credit he can get in establishing himself. As in every other business,
a good brand name helps sell the goods. I learned that after about thehundredth time someone said to me, "Oh, did you write that? Why that's one ofmy favorite stories." 

Anyhow, Philip St. John was credited with the story, "Done Without Eagles." 

10. 
Done Without Eagles (by Philip St. John) 

The triangulator registered eight thousand miles up from Earth, thoughnaturally we couldn't see the old ball behind us. When they built theKickapoo, they left out all windows and covered her with a new laboratoryproduct to bounce back hard radiations, which is why I have a couple of normal 


kids instead of half-monsters; cosmic rays just love to play around with aman's genes and cause mutations if they get a chance. Anyway, the spyinstruments we used were worth a whole factory of portholes. * 

Captain Lee Rogers ran his eyes over the raised indicators when I signaledthat we'd made one diameter, and found them all grooved where they should be.
He pushed back his shoulders and tapped down for normal space accelerationbefore swinging around to face me. "They all come back, Sammy," he said, forno good reason I could see. "Once a man's been outside the atmosphere, youcan't keep him grounded. Remember Court Perry?" 

How could I help it, with some of the records he'd made still unbeaten? He'dwon his eagles back in the old quartz-window days. 

Then, when they built the Kickapoo as the first blind ship and made himcaptain, he'd made history and legends for six years, until even the die-hardsadmitted spy instruments worked, and every student in navigation school withmarrying ideas darned near worshiped him. After that, his landings andtakeoffs began to go sour, and got worse for months. They seemed to beimproving again at the last, but it was too late then; the officials calledhim in and yanked his eagles, offering him an office job instead, which heturned down. That had been five years before and nobody had heard a word ofthe captain since. 

"Sure," I told Lee. "It was before I got my copilot ticket on the Kickapoo,
but they gave us his life for inspirational reading in navigation school.
Why?" 

He handed me over a hen-scratched paper giving the passenger listings. "Take alook at the angel roll. The steward sent it up for my okay on the use of thesuperdeck cabin." 

"Inspector eyeing our flare?" The superdeck cabin is reserved for officials,
usually, and lies right down the hall from the dugout.— navigation room—nextto the captain and pilot's quarters. 

Lee shook his head. "Free-wing angels. We're carrying a full load this trip,
and they came aboard with 'any consideration will be appreciated 'passes, so Ihad to okay it You might read it, you know." 

It was an idea, though I was beginning to catch on. All the same, my eyespopped when I saw the names after Cabin O-A. "Captain Courtney R. Perry, Ret.,
and Stanley N. Perry, M.A., M.M., Ph.D, F.R.P.S., F.R.S.," I read. "Mmm. Sohe's come out of the hole. Who's the alphabet?" 

"Court Perry's son, and that's only part of his degrees and such. One of thehard-radiation mutes." Mutation, he meant, not speechless. "Bom while thecaptain was on the old ships, so don't be surprised when you see him. Claimshe's a superman, and maybe he is— Get ready for trouble, Sammy." 

"I don't get it." I'd been wanting to meet Court Perry for years, and thislooked like a first-class opportunity to me. 

Lee grimaced. "Naturally, not knowing him. I was his pilot before they sackedhim, though, and I know what he'll think of another man pushing his ship.
Inside of an hour, you'll hear a knock on the door there, and won't have toguess who it is." 


Lee was wrong, partly. It wasn't more than half an hour before the knock came,
and the door opened to show the hugest body I'd seen on a man six feet talland not fat. It was topped by a head that was 

simply magnificent; beautiful describes it better than handsome. And belowthat—well, the man had four arms, all fully developed, and muscled like agorilla's, with long hands that ended in six tapering fingers apiece.
Apparently the double shoulder system left no room for a waist, but ran in astraight line from hips up. I must have gasped, but the mute took no notice ofit. 

"Hi, Lee. How's tricks?" 

Lee gave him a rather troubled grin and came to his feet to grab one of thearms. "Not bad, Stan, though the two of you might have written once in awhile. You're looking good. How's Court?" 

"All right, I guess." He swung a couple of hands in an uncertain gesture thatgave me the heebies. "He wants to join you here for a while, if you don'tmind." 

"Afraid I can't. The rules forbid passengers—" 

"What's that?" The voice rapped out from the hall and swung me around to facea little, thin man with a ramrod down his back and a neat Vandyke on his face.
He looked like the sort who'd hit heaven and been routed through hell on thereturn ticket, but come through it. Pride, authority, and indignation were allmixed, and another expression I couldn't quite place. Something about him mademe pull my stomach in and come to attention, even though he wasn't wearingtwin eagles on his old space cap. 

"What's that, Lee?" he rapped out again, pushing forward to the dugout. "Whenhave I ever been an angel, eh? Don't be an ass!" 

Lee's arm barred his way. "Sorry, sir, but technically you're an angel now.
The rule clearly states that no passengers are to be admitted to navigation orengine rooms under any circumstances. You taught me those rules were to beobeyed!" 

"I taught you not to be a blamed fool! Out of my way, Lee. I'm coming in. Iwant to find out what's happened to my ship while you've been running it.
Stan, make way for me!" 

Stan started forward, and I didn't like the look of those bulkirfg shoulders,
but Lee waved him back with a sharp gesture. There were little creasestorturing his forehead, and the muscles along his jaw stood out sharply.
"Sorry, Captain Perry. I'm wearing the eagles on this ship. Return to yourquarters!" 

For only a fraction of a second, Court Perry winced, and then his face frozeinto a blank. "Very good, Captain Rogers," he said precisely, coming tosalute. He executed a right-about-turn with a snap and marched down the hall,
fingering the place where the eagles should have been, Stan following. 

I swung to Lee. "Good Lord, man, did you have to—" 


"I had to." The cigarette in his hands was mashed to a pulp, and he tossed itaway savagely, fiddling with the controls, while the air machine clicked outthe only noises in the room and I made myself busy with charts. Finally heshrugged and reached for another cigarette. 

"Court Perry dug me out of an orphanage, Sammy, put me through navigationschool, and taught me all he knew about running the Kickapoo. He's—" Leestopped and looked to see how I was taking it. "All right, I suppose it doesmake me seem an ungrateful pup. But if I'd broken that rule or let himoverride my authority, he'd have hated me for a weakling and himself forhaving failed with me. Now let's forget it and wait for his next move. Hewon't give up on the first try," 

He didn't. Almost as Lee finished speaking, the etherphone ikked from behindthe controls and I jumped to answer it. " 'Lee Rogers,'" I read as it cameover, " 'Captain, Kickapoo: Captain Courtney Perry and son are to have fullfreedom of ship. Signed, Redman, president—' How'd they get word throughwithout sending on our transmitter?" 

"Probably Stan built a sender from the pile of gadgets he always carriesalong." 

"In fifteen minutes?" 

"Mm-hmm. He does those things when he wants to. I've seen him take acomputator apart and reassemble it in ten." Lee glanced at the clock and slidoff the throne. "Take over. So Court still has pull in the office, it seems.
Redman had no business interfering; we're in space and my word is supposed tobe final. Nothing I can do about it, though. Come inl" 

The door snapped open to show Court Perry standing with his feet exactly onthe imaginary line of the dugout, Stan behind him. He came to rigid attentionand saluted stiffly. Lee returned it. "The freedom of the ship is yours,
Captain Perry," he acknowledged. "Sammy, see that Captain Perry is providedwith a set of master keys to the lower decks." 

"Thank you, Captain Rogers." Court's square shoulders were perhaps a triflefarther back as he stepped over the line and approached the control seat. Hereached out as I slid up to let him take it, then hesitated. "With yourpermission, sir." 

"Permission granted." It was the first time I'd seen formality in space, and Ifelt awkward as a two-tailed comet between them. Lee 

disappeared around the panel to the etherphone cubbyhole with a handful ofmiscellaneous and unrelated charts in his hands. 

As Court took the seat I had vacated, the huge bulk of Stan moved in front ofme, cutting off my view. He was almost too big for the little room. But Icould hear the faint sounds of the old man's fingers on the panel, as hetested it bit by bit. He grunted once or twice, and Stan seemed to muttersomething, then twitched his arms slightly and looked around. Court got up. 

"Copilot—Sammy's the name, isn't it? Good." He nodded faintly at that. "Sammy,
where are the testing instruments? I used to keep them under the panel, butapparently they're no longer there." "We don't have testers, sir; at least,
I've never seen any." "No testers, eh?" He swallowed it carefully, then tossed 


his voice over the instrument panel. "Captain Rogers, your copilot informs methere are no instrument testers. Is that correct?" 

Lee's voice bounced back at him. "It is, Captain Perry. Under the newregulations, we're checked over at both ends, and no tests are made in space.
That system has proved entirely satisfactory." 

"Hmm. I distinctly remember explaining to you the reasons for space tests.
Takeoff accelerations sometimes jar loose a delicate control, and furthermore,
ground men are sometimes careless; they're not trained in actual flightconditions, and their lives aren't involved. I advise an immediate test ofyour instruments. Hall Indicator C responds slowly, and the meteor repelleritself may be at fault instead of the indicator." "Sorry, sir, that'simpossible. We have no testers." Court grimaced at that. "Your engine-roomtesters can be adapted. I believe I also taught you how that was done." 

"Sorry, Captain Perry," Lee decided positively. "I don't consider suchmeasures necessary under the present regulations." 

Seeing the uselessness of arguing, Court shrugged. 'Take over, Sammy," hesaid, relinquishing the controls. "And if he'll listen, yOu might remindCaptain Rogers that Mars lies in the region of the Little Swarm now. Meteors—
even peanut-sized ones—aren't pleasant company when the hull repellers are outof order. Now, if I could have those keys—" 

When the door closed again, Lee came out of the hole. "Easier 

than I thought. . . Mmm. Nothing wrong with Indicator C that I 

can see. It answers to a change in the hull charge perfectly. Wonder 

what happens next." 

Nothing really happened for a while, except that Stan and Court 

were poking over the ship in a methodless hunt for inefficiency. It was justthat something was in the air, an unpleasantness that traveled from thecontrol room down to the crew deck, and finally hit the passengers. But anylittle thing in space does that, and the old customers of the line shruggedand forgot it, as much as they could. Court wandered about the ship with Stanat his heels, but I could see no particular point to his activities. 

I was off duty on a prowl when the first trouble came. Down from the cook'sgalley came a caterwauling and sounds of some sort of scrap, with the shrillyelps of the little cook predominating. As I bounced around a corner, I sawTony leave the deck in a flying leap and plunge toward the entrance of hisdomain. 

Then one of Stan's big arms came out carelessly and caught him in midair.
"Naughty boy," the mute said softly. "You'll hurt yourself trying that. LuckyI was here to catch you." He held the cook easily, while the little mansquirmed and fumed helplessly. 

"What's going on here?" I wanted to know. Tony swung away at the sound of myvoice and bounced up and down before me. 

"Mr. Noyes, you gotta help me, you gotta! They steal my galley; they snoop all 


over; they won't let me work. How can I cook without I get in? Get 'em out,
Mr. Noyes, kill 'em, lock 'em in irons. Oh, Santa Maria, I'll kill 'em sodead! Alia my help's in there and I ain't telling 'em what to do! They'llspoil the dinner. Get away from my galley, you bums, or I'll make soup outayou both! Spoil my dinner, I feed you to pigs! Mr. Noyes, you gotta get 'emout." 

Stan grinned at me and winked, which was my first indication that he had asense of humor of some kind. 'Tony's a little overen-thusiastic, Sammy. Don'tmind him." He caught one of the little man's flailing fists and drew himclose, patting his head. "Sh, Tony. Dad decided to investigate the galley, sowe dropped down. Tony came in just as we were looking over his pans, and setup a squawk. When he grabbed a butcher knife and came at us, I had to put himout. Finished in there, Dad?" 

"All finished." Court appeared in the door. "Tony!" 

The tone of voice cut through Tony's indignation and left the cook at limpattention. 

"Yes-sir?" 

"Tony, you use too much grease, and you don't clean your pans often enough!
Look at that!" He held out a frying pan with a thin coat of oil on the bottom.
"That carries one meal's flavor over to the 

next food. I've found grease on your griddles, too, thick enough to come offon my finger and half stale. Anything to say about it?" 

"That new helper," Tony suggested weakly. "Musta been the new helper." 

"So? Then teach that new helper to keep clean pans. I don't like indigestion.
All right, back to your work! Hello, Sammy. Any objections from headquarters?" 

"Not this time, sir." I suppose Lee would have objected, but Lee didn't needto know. After all, there had been a slightly off taste to the food thisvoyage, and I didn't have much use for Tony's treatment of his assistants,
anyway. 

Court smiled, apparently in the best of spirits after his conquest of thegalley. "Fine. I don't suppose Captain Lee has followed my advice, eh? ... No,
I thought not. Thinks I'm a meddling old fool who had no business going overhis head. Pigheaded—made him that way, I guess. Needs an accident to teach himgood sense—and he'll get it, or I'm mistaken. Damn!" 

He caught his foot against a swabber's kit and lurched forward, grabbing at ahandrail to regain his balance. "Who left that. . . that bucket in the middleof a man's way? Rollins still bossing the middle decks? A fine way to run aship! You go on with Sammy, Stan. I'm seeing Rollins." 

"Don't want me to go with you, Dad?" 

"No, I don't need you. Rollins knows me well enough to behave himself. Swabpails in the middle of the deck!" He went muttering off toward the stairs thatled to the crew quarters, carrying himself on parade dress. Stan and I turnedup to the superdeck. He began filling his pipe with three hands, while Iwatched in fascinated silence until it was finished, and he turned back to me. 


"Dad's quite a remarkable man, Sammy," he said. "You're not getting a verygood slant on him, I suppose, but if you knew him better you'd find it isn'tprejudice on my part—I have no prejudices." • 

"I've seen one thing," I agreed. "He's the only man I ever knew who could bethoroughly provoked with the captain and not take it out on the copilot aswell. It's a pity he and Lee can't get together." 

The mute threw open the door of his cabin and motioned me in. "Make yourselfcomfortable. I wouldn't worry about Lee and Dad, fellow. They both put aship's command above Heaven and Earth, but that'll be finished the minute wedock. Anyway, it's sort of a farewell fling for Dad, so he's making the mostof it." 

"How do you mean, farewell trip? Thanks, yes." The wine he 

brought out of some little gadget was cold and delicious. He sampled his ownbefore replying. 

"Heart trouble, they told him. When he found out, he decided to make one moretrip in the Kickapoo and settle down on Mars. No dying on Earth for him. Keepthis under your hat—Lee's not to know —but the chances are all against hisliving another year. So I left the wife and kids behind and came along." 

"The wife and kids?" It had caught me off guard, and I blurted out thequestion like a darned fool. 

There was a grin on his face then. "Sure, I'm married, and there are fourchildren back in Dad's old house—all like me. I'm a true mutation, you know;
pass on my differences to any children. It's my duty to continue my strain;
otherwise the human race may have to wait a few thousand more years foranother superman." 

There was certainly no false modesty about him; neither was his tone boasting.
About all I could say to that was a grunt. 

He grinned again. "It's the truth, Sammy, so why should I deny it? I lookstrange to you; but you must admit I have advantages physically; among others,
I'm practically immune to all diseases. I finished high school and college inthe absolute minimum time. I got the T.R.P.S.' after my name for working out aprocess for grinding lenses in a true parabola to an accuracy of onemolecule's thickness-using a colloidal abrasive suspended in air, andcontrolled by the irregularities themselves; that was something they saidcouldn't be done. Want more proof?" 

Something suddenly brought me up out of the seat and toward him, and I couldfeel a flood of anger running through me at his egotism. I hated the man witha red blood lust that made me crouch in grim determination to clutch andmangle and bite. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, and I found himlaughing at me. "Telepathic control, Sammy, so don't feel foolish. Convincedof my right to call myself super now?" 

It was as good an explanation of his ability as anything else, but there werestill angles on it. "Okay, you're a superman. But why aren't you out turningthe world over? I've never read of a superman in a story where the fellowminded his own business like the average man." 


"You won't—it isn't interesting that way. But one superman in a world ofnormal men isn't enough to do much. His best bet is to raise children and passit on until only the supermen are left—that's the way nature did it. I learnedearly to speak and act like a normal 

man, whatever differences there are in our way of thinking. Anyway, I wasbrought up by normal men, and I'm somewhat limited by that —my children won'tbe. More wine?" 

I nodded, my head spinning. I'd felt about the same way in training schoolwhen I got my first whiff of butyl mercaptan in the chemistry class and wastold a living animal could make and use a similar odor. It was a good thingCourt came in then. 

"Rollins knows better now," he said, satisfaction heavy in his voice. "Sammy,
your name's sounding on the caller; captain wants you." And as I slipped outof the cabin toward the dugout, I caught a less-welcome sentence from him.
"Think I'll look over the engine room tomorrow, Stan." 

All I could do was pray! 

Apparently my prayers weren't much good, though. Near the end of Captain Lee'sshift the next day, while I was waiting around to take over, the engine phonebuzzed and McAllister's voice rattled through it. Lee winced and held it outso we could both hear. 

McAllister was in fine fettle. "Captain, there's an old fool down here makingtrouble, with a freak to help him! Three of my best men have their arms brokenand a couple are out. 'Twas a lovely fight, while it lasted, but I've work tobe done and no more time for play. What'll I do with 'em?" 

"What happened? Where are they now?" 

"They're backed in a corner a-waiting for more competition right now, and theold man's using highly uncomplimentary language, so they'll get it. He camedown to fiddle around, you might say, over the shininess of my turbines andthe dripping of my oil, and I let him have his way with only a word or twodropped about his nose being a bit long. But when the freak found where one ofthe black gang had hidden some liquor and the old man broke the bottle, thebugger jumped him, and the freak joined the play. Naturally, the others*
didn't stand by helpless, and I had a bit of a time quieting things down. . .
. Shall I shoot them or use a club?" 

Lee swore into the phone and then quieted down to make sense. "McAllister, putthe fellow with the liquor in the brig! I'll settle with you later. Keep thegang of cutthroats in line and send up the other two—they'll come if you tellthem I ordered it Did any outside the engine crew hear the fight?" 

"No, just a little private party that your dainty little angels won't knowabout. I hated to break it up, but I needed a few sound men to 

run the engines, and I thought you might have some slight objection. . . .
Okay, I've told 'em, and they're on the way up." 

"McAllister would!" Lee slapped the phone back onto its cradle and expoundedfurther on the beauties of a captain's life and the virtue of sundry 


individuals. "If he weren't the best engineer out, I'd sack him—and if there'sany more drinking or fighting aboard, I will anyway. He does enough brawlingin port—come inl" 

I don't know what I'd expected; probably some pieces of man and mute, from thenature of McAllister's black gang. Anyway, I was wrong. Court was highlyundirty and unscratched, which could only mean Stan had done the actualfighting. The mute's shirt would have made lint, and his general color wasthat of stale oil; but, except for a few slight scratches, he was untouched. Ihad a vision of those gorilla arms swinging all together, and began to see whyMcAllister had called Lee before the fight was completely finished. 

"Discipline," said Court, while Lee was still swallowing enough ire to clearspeaking space in his throat, "is terrible aboard, sir. Since you willprobably insist on retaining the creature that passes for your engineer, Ihave asked Stan to accept his invitation and meet him after we dock; I hopeyou'll show better judgment in choosing the new engineer you'll need." 

Lee was practically gagging by that time. "Captain Perry, you forget yourself!
Only your age prevents me from confining you to the brig, sir! Keep out of mymind, Stan! That goes for you, too. If I suspect you of trying to control me,
I'll brig you before I break. Angels running my ship! You will return to yourquarters and remain there until we dock. During that time, you may leave todine, only, and you will refrain from all comments to the other passengers orany members of the crew. And you, Captain Perry, will remove the uniform youwear by courtesy, and dress in civilians!" 

"That exceeds your authority, Lee," Stan pointed out softly. Court wasradiating a cold white anger that needed no speech. "It's true that there wassome trouble below, but we were not unauthorized in our search, and the fightwas not of my making; I had no choice, unless I preferred to have my fatherand myself mutilated. There's no need to strip Dad!" 

"Except that he's been scaring the angels with wild tales while his clothesgive his words weight! He's ruining my crew and destroying morale—generallymaking a nuisance or a laughingstock of himself. I won't have the uniformdisgraced. To quarters!" 

There was a click of heels from Court and the sound of feet slap


ping down the hall before his door shut. Stan stood a moment longer, spreadinghis hands at odd angles, then followed. With a glance at the clock, Leeclapped his hands down on the panel and jerked from the throne. 

"Seven hours from Mars. Take over! Don't call me unless there's an emergency." 

That left me alone at the controls, and the peace should have been welcome,
but wasn't. I could still hear echoes bouncing from the walls, and the face ofCourt Perry kept getting in front of the controls. I never took sides in aruction in a family or ship, but I'd have given half an eye to see the answerto this one. Grown men, I figured, are worse than kids, and you can't spankthem as easily. And when they're hurt, I reckon the sting lasts longer. 

If I hadn't been darned fool enough to worry about something that wasn't mybusiness, I might have taken more notice of the slight quiver that touched theship a couple of hours later, but I put it down to temporary lag in one tube,
corrected it automatically, and went On roiling around mentally. In the back 


of my mind, I heard the door open softly and close, and was glad Lee hadreturned instead of getting drunk as I feared, but didn't bother to lookaround. A hand slid across my back and gripped my shoulder before I swung tosee Court Perry. 

He'd put off his uniform and most of himself with it, and now Only a small,
beaten old man stood there looking at me uncertainly. There's a certain kindof hell in the back of the best minds, and Court had found it. The fact thatthere was no pain or bitterness on his face only made it worse, somehow. Islid out of the copilot Stool. 

"Sit down, sir. Lee's turned authority over to me and won't be back forhours." His look toward the chair was hesitant and I motioned toward it again.
"I'm commanding now, and if I choose to, request your presence here as anadviser, nobody can do anything about it." 

"Don't counter your captain too much, Sammy." But he took the 

•tool, sinking down into it like a half-pricked balloon. "Sometime you may berunning your own tick. I felt the ship lurch back there. Know what it was?" 
'Tube lag. I've corrected." 

"I thought so. You'd naturally make that mistake. It wasn't tube lag. Thatlurch came from Hull Section C, or everything I've learned 

•bout the feeling of a ship is wrong—and I don't think so. That means 
a peanut from the Little Swarm clipped up too close before the re-pellersfunctioned, and it was soaked up too quickly for recoil compensation. That'sdangerous business, and I couldn't stay berthed with it going on." 

"Indicator's registering." I tapped out more current to the hull repeller andwatched the pointer. It fluttered a second, and wabbled slowly over—but kepton going instead of stopping at the mark. "Hm-mm!" 

"Exactly." 

Right then I began to see meteors swarming up as thick as peas in a can. Igrabbed the phone, yelled down for the repair crew to jury-rig whatever waswrong. Court tapped me. 

"Make,an overroll. They strike from the starboard side, and if we turn theweak section to port, it'll help." As he saw me grab for the calculator tofigure my thrusts, he brushed my hands aside and laid his on the controls,
feeling over the raised indicators with fingers that seemed jointless, thenpulled on the firing pins. Spirit ran back over him. 

The Kickapoo's thwart tubes muttered obediently, and I could feel the faintpress of overroll acceleration. While she was just starting, those longflickering fingers went back to the steering panel and made another lightningreset, twisted the delayed-fire dials, and punched the pins again to checkwhen half-over was reached. I'd heard men claim ships could be handled byconditioned reflexes, but I'd never seen it tried before. 

Court leaned back, his hands still playing over the indicators. "Not muchchance of two meteors hitting the same spot for hours, anyway, but there's no 


sense—" 

SSSping-owgh-ooOOM! Something burst in front of us, white-hot and flaminghotter as it struck through the etherphone and threw hot metal splatteringover the dugout. One of us grabbed the other —which, it wasn't clear—and welurched toward the door, just as the last sounds subsided. There was a seriesof rolling slams, and the automatic air gates whammed shut, one, two, three,
cutting the dugout in two just behind the panel. The local danger lights wentoff and we stopped our scramble for the door. 

Then the thwart tubes burbled again, stopping the roll of the ship after thedamage was done. From below came faint sounds of excitement that meant theangels were milling around with their fear on their arms, like a pack ofsheep. Court snapped up and dived for the 

angel communicator while I began bellowing down for the checking gang to patchthe holes in the outer and inner sheaths. 

His voice was brisk and confident. "The small meteor you just felt drove intothe control room from which I'm speaking," he announced. "No serious damagewas done, and there is absolutely no danger. Passengers are requested tocontinue as before. The slight inconvenience caused will in no way affectthem, nor the arrival time at our destination. I assure you, there is no causefor worry." 

As they began quieting down under his words and I turned to inspect thepanels, Lee came bursting in and thrust himself in front of me. "Whathappened?" 

I told him quickly, and he grunted. "Etherphone gone, of course. Allinstruments are dead! It must have hit the relay chamber and burned out theconnections. We're flying completely blind, without spy instruments! No way ofcontacting Earth, where the repair ships are; none on Mars at present. Even ifwe could get a message out, our momentum would carry us to Jupiter by the timethey could reach us." 

"The controls are all right, though." It was Court's voice, breaking in on thegloom. "The overroll counterset worked. They're not connected with the spyinstruments, anyway." 

"What good are controls without indicators? You! I thought I gave orders youwere to stay berthed! Is this accident more of your work, Captain Perry?" 

"Easy, Lee." I caught him just as Stan slid through the doorway, arms and all,
and completely filled what was left of the dugout. "Court was helping me, atmy request, and he almost succeeded in preventing this. He might still help ifyou'll calm down and use your head. What next?" 

"What can be next? Get Stan to signal Mars with the etherphone he used beforeand have them contact Earth, I guess—and then wait.. There's no chance offixing the fused mess the meteor would make of the relays." 

Court shook his head. "We can't wait. I promised the passengers they'd reachMars on time, and I mean to see they do. I'll fly it if you can't." 

"Without instruments? Captain Perry, return to your quarters and keep this toyourself." 


"Without instruments!" Court's voice was flat and positive. 

"For the last time, will you get out?" 

"No. I'm flying the Kickapoo to Mars Junctionl" 

That was a little strong, even for me. "You can't do it, sir. That would bemutiny." I grabbed for one arm as Lee caught the other, but the old man bracedhimself and refused to move. 

"It is mutiny," he said. Then, as Lee let go and grabbed for the phone tosummon help: "StanI" 

Stan stood there for a second, then moved toward us, a slow frown creeping upon his face. A flurry of arms came at us—they must have been arms, at least—
and I felt myself leave the floor, twist and turn in the air, and hitsomething. Blackout! 

Lee's voice, raging furiously and almost incoherently, was the first thing Iknew later, except for the ringing that went on in my head, "—behind bars tillthe devil catches pneumonia! I'll—" 

Stan turned from some problem he was working on, and little furrows ofconcentration set on his brow. "Shut up, Lee! You'll not say another worduntil we reach Mars. Understand?" 

Lee opened his mouth and worked furiously, but nothing came out of it.
Finally, he slumped back and gave up. The mute turned to me. "Sorry, Sammy,
but I had to do it. Here, I'll fix that headache for you." Again there was asecond of concentration, and the ringing was suddenly gone, though the lump onthe back of my head was still there. 

"Where are we now?" 

"Half an hour from Mars; you've been out quite a while," Court answered me.
"Stan plotted a course from the co-ordinates I remembered were on the panelbefore the crash, and we're using dead reckoning. Of course, there may be aslight error of a few hundred miles, but that isn't much." 

Slight error! Technically, it was; but that wouldn't help if we crashed squareinto the planet or missed completely. Lee writhed in the corner and managed ahissing sound. Well, there was nothing I could do now. Court had the ship andthere was no chance of outside help. All I could do was ride along and pray—
fervently if not hopefully. 

"Get a reading yet?" Court asked. "And better signal Mars to clear the field—Imay wobble a little." 

Stan picked up a little box with a few loops of wire sticking from it andbegan twisting a dial; it wasn't big enough to be an ether-phone, as I knewone, but a faint whisper from the headset reached me, after a brief pause.
"They say all clear down there, Dad; I told them we were having 

a little trouble. From the directional angle I get with the loop here, we'reabout two seconds of an arc too high. Better correct." 


"Already done. Now if I can hit into the atmosphere right, and get the feel ofthe air currents so I can recognize the territory I'm in, we'll be all set."
He hunched himself over the panel and sat waiting for a few aeons longer.
Finally: "Ah, there's the first layer of thin air—we're still a little toofast! There, that should fix it. We're getting down where the air currentshave character now." 

"Junction on a line from us, almost," Stan reported. "Correct to port onedegree five and a half seconds . . . two minutes . . . eight seconds. Good!" 

"Updraft. That puts us over—mmm. . ." 

Magic may have its place, but I wasn't used to it aboard the Kickapoo. "GoodLord, Stan," I begged, "do something about it! No man can fly a rocket by aircurrents and the feel of her! I can't even tell an updraft from a hurricane inthis heavy shell." 

"He can." The calm in his voice was infuriating. "Dad's memorized every squareinch and reaction of the whole Kickapoo, until he knew every quiver of herhull and pull of her controls. Flew her for a year without using the visionplate. Dad's been blind six years, Sammy!" 

"But—" That was too much for even Stan's control, and Lee squeezed the oneword out hoarsely. 

"This time, I've been his eyes. Telepathy, you know. Dad didn't want people toguess. When his eyesight began failing—probably from the radiation he used tohave to take—he put those raised indicators in at his own expense and wentahead. And for your mental comfort, he made his last two landings witheyesight completely gone and without a hitch. If the officers' board, hadn'tcaught on, he'd still be running a regular tick, and Lee would be copilotingwithout guessing the truth." , 

Maybe so, but the mental comfort he'd mentioned wasn't there. Those raisedindicators weren't helping this trip, and Court hadn't touched a control forfive years. He'd been hunched over them while Stan was speaking, but now hebroke in again. 

"There's Junction, by the feel of it. Test her, Stan; that should be thefield." 

"I think it was." 

"Good! We're high, from the sound of the backblast." The Kickapoo veeredaround in a huge circle, Court fighting the controls to hold her on a levelwithout indicators. Stan apparently was capable of 

nothing but confidence, which wasn't shared entirely by his father. Sweatbegan popping out on the old man's face. "Can't make it this time, either!"
"Steady, Dad!" 

"I'm steady enough." Again the ship made a tight circle, her vanes shriekingagainst the air; her speed was low now, and she wobbled uncertainly. Court'shands bleached white, and his face blanched suddenly. One fist jerked awayspasmodically, slapped back, and the grim fight with the controls went on. Iwas cooking in my own sweat. 


Then something slithered under us, the rockets died, and silence reigned. Fromthe outside came a rattle, and we went into motion again in a-way that meantthe field tractors were dragging us in. Safe! Stan was untying Lee and myself,
and then Lee was muttering something I didn't try to understand and movingtoward Court. 

The old captain watched his approach with a tired smile and came slowly to hisfeet. "It's your throne again, Lee. It's—" 

Hell splashed over his face at that moment! Stan barely managed to catch himas the legs buckled and failed him. But the salute he had started continued,
and the voice went on faintly. "A very nice landing you made, Lee—you made,
understand? .... My cap! . . . Where's my cap?" 

Lee caught himself and jerked his own cap up out of the comer where it hadlain, making gulping motions in his throat. "Here, Captain," he said, puttingit on the old man's head. "Here's your cap." Some of the agony left Court'smouth as his fingers felt it and groped up the visor. "Eagles!" The smile thatsuffused his face might almost have been a prayer. "My eagles!" 

Then Stan was laying the body down and clutching tight at Lee's shakingshoulders. "Not your fault," he was saying gently. "Not your fault, Lee. Hisheart—" 

I turned and stumbled out of the dugout to oversee the passengers who werelanding after another uneventful trip to Mars. 

From then on for a long time, writing was the least of my interests. I'veoften called myself a professional dilettante, with a fair measure of truth.
And my interests tend to have long cycles. I'll suddenly get interested insomething and drop everything else to rush into it. Eventually, I seem to goas far as I can on that go-round, and it gets 

put aside until some time in the future when I can attack it with new zeal. 

I was busy with the typewriter, however, writing long letters to Campbell. Butthey had nothing to do with writing, usually. He had gotten interested inphotography, and my enthusiasm for a hobby was as nothing compared to his. I'ddiscovered a new, experimental developer that sometimes gave fantasticexposure speeds to film. I took a picture once of a friend playing the piano,
lighted only by two candles. That's obviously impossible for a lens opening ofonly f:4-5—but the negative was excellent, with good, soft shadows. However,
the stuff was tricky and uncertain. Campbell and I must have wasted reams ofpaper discussing it. 

Then my visit to Fred Pohl bore unexpected results. I was suddenly visited bytwo prominent fans, Milton Rothman and Elmer Purdue. Milt had been one of thegreat letter writers back when I was filling the letter columns, and we wereold friends, even though we'd never met. And now, for the first time, I had aninformed fellow fan with whom I could discuss science fiction for hours. We 
saw a lot of each other, and the friendship has lasted firmly until thepresent. 

But my letters to Campbell and his answers began to arouse an itch in me tovisit him again. That meant I'd better do a story to pay for the trip, and Isat down to concoct one. 


I called it "The Boaster," and it was all about a braggart who was suddenlygranted the gift from the gods of having every bragging lie become sobertruth. If he claimed he could speak ancient Aramaic fluently, from then on hecould. I'm afraid I didn't have much of an ending, though I patched onsomething that seemed good at the time. It added another 5,000 words to myreject pile. 

Okay, I decided, I should have known better than to try one for Unknown. Mysales record was much better at Astounding. So I* plotted out something fullof character and rich with something else that wasn't exactly freshness, allabout a young man on Mars who's afraid to take strong drink or indulge inother manly arts, but who naturally becomes a great hero when the chips aredown. I tucked the 6,400 words of "The Milksop" into an envelope and got onthe bus for New York, no longer willing to wait another week for the mail. 

It was a time when the war in Europe was heating up sharply, and Campbell wasas excited about that as I was—though we were totally in disagreement aboutwhat would come of the latest moves. 

Almost at once, we got on to that, with Campbell brushing me aside to explainthe real facts. 

I wasn't going to be brushed. He sat back while I argued, frowning for amoment. Then his whole face lighted up with pleasure and we went at it hot andheavy. His assistant, Miss Tarrant, sat quietly enjoying the whole thing. JohnCampbell was a formidable opponent in an argument, and he was also the editorwho bought stories. Apparently most who saw him were afraid or unable to arguewith him. Yet no man ever loved an argument more, and he was delighted when Ifought back. I think our real friendship began then. Happily, it continued fora great many years, until the day he died. 

In the end, he stopped long enough to inquire where I was staying. I hadn'tmade arrangements, expecting to take the bus back late that night. He theninvited me to stay with him—he'd recently moved into a house in New Jersey,
and he'd be glad to put me up on the couch. Meantime, he'd look at mymanuscript. 

When I came back that evening, there was a strange look on his face, halfpuckish, half troubled. When I was seated, he reached over to his manuscriptpile and extracted my story. Holding it gingerly at the corner between thumband one finger, he moved it over above the wastebasket. "Do you really wantthis back?" he asked. "Or should I just drop it in the permanent file?" Isuppose I gulped. "Really that bad?" 

He nodded sadly and dropped it into the wastebasket. I think that was the bestpiece of literary criticism I ever received—and the truest, as I found when Itried to read my carbon copy later. There were times when a point had to bedriven home—and he knew when and how to do it. 

Later, after a cordial welcome and an excellent dinner from his wife, Dona, wesettled back to my first real bull session on working methods and attitudes.
John had taught himself to write; I don't think he had a great deal of naturaltalent, but he had a tremendous ability to analyze and to learn. It was amarvelous evening and full of information for me—particularly after we begananalyzing why so many of my stories had failed. 

Neither he nor I could pinpoint the main fault at first. But gradually, we 


worked it out. Unknown used a good deal of light, humorous fantasy. And mostof my failures had been attempts to write that type of story. I couldn't doit, as many other writers couldn't. "You can get way down inside yourcharacters," John decided. "And that's a gift But when you're that deep inthem, they just don't seem 

funny to themselves or anyone else." I never tried to write humor again. 

There was a bit of clumsy humor, however, when John fitted me out with a pairof his pajamas. He went around taking pictures of me stumbling about in enoughcloth to outfit five of me. 

It was a good trip, and eventually a valuable one. But I wasn't inspired totry any more writing this time. I got a lot of rough ideas from Campbell, butI filed them away. I didn't have the least desire to pull words out of mytypewriter. 

Almost a year drifted by. Once in a while, Campbell would add a story idea toone of his letters, and a few times he threatened to find some way of gettingme so broke that I'd write again. But I wasn't interested. 1941 came along andspent more than half of itself without any fiction going through thetypewriter. 

Then my girl friend decided she had to take in the World's Fair in New York. Ididn't want to see it, but I agreed to meet her and ride back with her, sinceit was a good excuse to see Campbell again. And that meant I had to have astory with me. 

I worked up a little 4,5oo-worder called "Hereafter, Inc.," about a man whodies after a life of self-denial and suffering for his faith. But heaven isn'twhat he expected—it's a place where you go on doing what you've always done.
To his atheist boss, it's heaven; to him, it's hell. It was an idea ofCampbell's that he'd sent to several writers, but he didn't recognize it—andwhen I told him, he pointed out that he probably bought it because I'd made itone he no longer recognized. 

A couple months later, an old idea suddenly matured and began nagging me untilI finally sat down and wrote it. It dealt with the last survivor of a racenative to the Moon, and what happened when a spaceship accidentally landed inhis covered crater. It came to 6,500 words and was called "The Wings ofNight." Campbell didn't pay a bonus, but he suggested that maybe I was backwhere I belonged, doing just the kind of writing he wanted, and why not trymore? I wasn't inclined that way, however, since no other idea seemed readyfor easy use. 

Then came December 7, 1941, and Pearl Harbor. My uncle called me up to tell methe news. We weren't too surprised; there were sources of information inWashington that had made us pretty certain Japan was going to strike. But wewere horrified at the extent of the damage. And we were somehow relieved thatAmerica 

was finally going to fight. Hitler had been anathema to us for a decade, atleast. 

I was as caught up in the wave of patriotism and war fever as anyone else, Ibelieve. My thoughts all began to center on the coming war. But I couldn'tquite stomach the silly stories of Hitler's depravity; his real evil was far 


more terrible than the petty stories of his madness. 

Eventually, I began thinking of a story about what would be a suitable end fora power-driven man like Hitler. I didn't want to make him a clown or a fool,
but to show him as I really believed him to be. And somehow, I found the ideathat seemed to fit. 

It came out as a io,ooo-word novelette called "My Name Is Legion," andCampbell loved the idea and added a bonus to the check. 

11. 
My Name Is Legion (by Lester del Rey) 

Bresseldorf lay quiet under the late-morning sun—too quiet. In the streetsthere was no sign of activity, though a few faint banners of smoke spreadupward from the chimneys, and the dropped tools of agriculture lay all about,
scattered as if from sudden flight. A thin pig wandered slowly andsuspiciously down Friedrichstrasse, turned into an open door cautiously,
grunted in grudging satisfaction, and disappeared within. But there were nocries of children, no bustle of men in the surrounding fields, nor womengossiping or making preparations for the noon meal. The few shops, apparentlygutted of foodstuffs, were bare, their doors flopping open. Even the dogs weregone. 

Major King dropped the binoculars to his side, tight lines about his eyes thatcontrasted in suspicion with his ruddy British face. "Something funny here,
Wolfe. Think it's an ambush?" 

Wolfe studied the scene. "Doesn't smell like it, Major," he answered. "In theColonials, we developed something of a sixth sense 

for that, and I don't get a hunch here. Looks more like a sudden and completeretreat to me, sir." 

"We'd have had reports from the observation planes if even a dozen men were onthe roads. I don't like this." The major put the binoculars up again. But thescene was unchanged, save that the solitary pig had come out again and wasrooting his way down the street in lazy assurance that nothing now menacedhim. King shrugged, flipped his hand forward in a quick jerk, and his commandmoved ahead again, light tanks in front, troop cars and equipment at a safedistance behind, but ready to move forward instantly to hold what ground thetanks might gain. In the village, nothing stirred. 

Major King found himself holding his breath as the tanks reached antitank-firedistance, but as prearranged, half of them lumbered forward at a deceptivespeed, maneuvered to two abreast to shuttle across Friedrichstrasse toward thevillage square, and halted. Still, there was no sign of resistance. Wolfelooked at the quiet houses along the street and grinned sourly. 

"If it's an ambush, Major, they've got sense. They're waiting until we send inour men in the trucks to pick them off then, and letting the tanks alone. ButI still don't believe it; not with such an army as he could throw together." 

"Hm-m-m." King scowled, and again gave the advance signal. 

The trucks moved ahead this time, traveling over the rough road at a clip that 


threatened to jar the teeth out of the men's heads, and the remaining tanksswung in briskly as a rear guard. The pig stuck his head out of a door as themajor's car swept past, squealed, and slipped back inside in haste. Then allwere in the little square, barely big enough to hold them, and the tanks werearranged facing out, their thirty-seven millimeters raking across the housesthat bordered, ready for an instant's notice. Smoke continued to risepeacefully, and" the town slumbered on, unmindful of this strange invasion. 

"Hell!" King's neck felt tense, as if the hair were standing on end. He swungto the men, moved his hands outward. "Out and search! And remember—take himalive if you can! If you can't, plug his guts and save his face—we'll have tobring back proof I" 

They broke into units and stalked out of the square toward the houses withgrim efficiency and rifles ready, expecting guerrilla fire at any second; nonecame. The small advance guard of the Army of Occupation kicked open such doorsas were closed and went in and 

sidewise, their comrades covering them. No shots came, and the only sound wasthe cries of the men as they reported "Empty!" 

Then, as they continued around the square, one of the doors opened quietly anda single man came out, glanced at the rifles centered on him, and threw up hishands, a slight smile on his face. "Kameradl" he shouted toward the major;
then in English with only the faintest of accents: "There is no other here, inthe whole village." Holding onto the door, he moved aside slightly to let asearch detail go in, waited for them to come out. "You see? I am alone inBresseldorf; the Leader you seek is gone, and his troops with him." Judging bythe man's facial expression that he was in no condition to come forward, Kingadvanced; Wolfe was at his side, automatic at ready. "I'm Major King, Army ofOccupation. We received intelligence from some of the peasants who fled fromhere yesterday that your returned Fiihrer was hiding here. You say—" 

"That he is quite gone, yes; and that you will never find him, though you combthe earth until eternity, Major King. I am Karl Meyers, once of Heidelberg."
"When did he leave?" 

"A matter of half an hour or so—what matter? I assure you, sir, he is too farnow to trace. Much too far!" 

"In half an hour?" King grimaced. "You underestimate the covering power of amodern battalion. Which direction?" 

"Yesterday," Meyers answered, and his drawn face lighted slightly. "But tellme, did the peasants report but one Fiihrer?" 

King stared at the man in surprise, taking in the basically pleasant face,
intelligent eyes, and the pride that lay, somehow, in the bent figure; thiswas no ordinary villager, but a man of obvious breeding. Nor did he seemanything but completely frank and honest. "No," the major conceded, "therewere stories. But when a band of peasants reports a thousand Fiihrers headingfifty thousand troops, we'd be a little slow in believing it, after all." 

"Quite so, Major. Peasant minds exaggerate." Again there was the suddenlighting of expression. "Yes, so they did—the troops. And in other ways,
rather than exaggerating, they minimized. But come inside, sirs, and I'llexplain over a bottle of the rather poor wine I've found here. I'll show you 


the body of the Leader, and even explain why he's gone—and where." 

"But you said—" King shrugged. Let the man be as mysterious as he chose, ifhis claim of the body was correct. He motioned Wolfe forward with him andfollowed Meyers into a room that had once 

been kitchen and dining room, but was now in wild disarray, its normalholdings crammed into the comers to make room for a small piece of mechanismin the center and a sheeted bundle at one side. The machine was apparently inthe process of being disassembled. 

Meyers lifted the sheet. "Der Fuhrer," he said simply, and King dropped with agasp to examine the dead figure revealed. 

There were no shoes, and the calluses on the feet said quite plainly that itwas customary; such few clothes as remained had apparently been piecedtogether from odds and ends of peasant clothing, sewed crudely. Yet on them,
pinned over the breast, were the two medals that the Leader alone bore. Oneside of the head had been blown away by one of the new-issue German explosivebullets, and what remained was incredibly filthy, matted hair falling belowthe shoulders, scraggy, tangled beard covering all but the eye and nose. Onthe left cheek, however, the irregular reversed question-mark scar from therecent attempt at assassination showed plainly, but faded and blended with thenormal skin where it should have been still sharp after only two months'healing. 

"An old, old man, wild as the wind and dirty as a hog wallow," King thought,
"yet, somehow, clearly the man I was after." 

Wolfe nodded slowly at his superior's glance. "Sure, why not? I'll cut hishair and give him a shave and a wash. When we're about finished here, we canfire a shot from the gun on the table, if it's still loaded . . . good! Reportthat Meyers caught him and held him for us; then, while we were questioninghim, he went crazy and Meyers took a shot at him." 

"Hm-m-m." King's idea had been about the same. "Men might suspect something,
but I can trust them. He'd never stand a careful inspection, of course,
without a lot of questions about such things as those feet, but the way thingsare, no really competent medical inspection will be made. It'll be a littlehard to explain those rags, though." 

Meyers nodded to a bag against the wall. "You'll find sufficient of hisclothes there, Major; we couldn't pack out much luggage, but that much webrought." He sank back into a rough chair slowly, the hollow in his cheeksdeepening, but a grim humor in his eyes. "Now, you'll want to know how ithappened, no doubt? How he died? Suicide—murder; they're one and the samehere. He died insane." 

The car was long and low. European by its somewhat unrounded lines and enginehousing, muddy with the muck that sprayed up from 

its wheels and made the road almost impassable. Likewise, it was stolen,
though that had no bearing on the matter at hand. Now, as it rounded an ill-
banked curve, the driver cursed softly, jerked at the wheel, and somehowmanaged to keep all four wheels on the road and the whole pointed forward. Hisfoot came down on the gas again, and it churned forward through the muck, thenmiraculously maneuvered another turn, and they were on a passable road and he 


could relax. 

"Germany, my Leader," he said simply, his large hands gripping at the wheelwith now needless ferocity. "Here, of all places, they will least suspectyou." 

The Leader sat hunched forward, paying little attention to the road or therisks they had taken previously. Whatever his enemies might say of his lack ofbravery in the first war, there was no cowardice about him now; power, inunlimited quantity, had made him unaware of personal fear. He shruggedfaintly, turning his face to the driver, so that the reversed questionmarkscar showed up, running from his left eye down toward the almost comic littlemoustache. But there was nothing comic about him, somehow; certainly not toKarl Meyers. 

"Germany," he said tonelessly. "Good. I was a fool, Meyers, ever to leave it.
Those accursed British—the loutish Russians—ungrateful French—troublemakingAmericans—bombs, retreats, uprisings, betrayals—and the two I thought were myfriends advising me to flee to Switzerland before my people—Bah, I was a fool.
Now those two friends would have me murdered in my bed, as this letter youbrought testifies. And the curs stalk the Reich, such as remains of it, andthink they have beaten me. Bonaparte was beaten once, and in a hundred days,
except for the stupidity of fools and the tricks of weather, even he mighthave regained his empire. . . . Where?" 

"Bresseldorf. My home is near there, and the equipment, also. Besides, when wehave the—the legion with us, Bresseldorf will feed us, and the clods ofpeasants will offer little resistance. Also, it is well removed from the areaspoliced by the Army of Occupation. Thank God, I finished the machine in time." 

Meyers swung the car into another little-used but passable road, and opened itup, knowing it would soon be over. This mad chase had taken more out of himthan he'd expected. Slipping across into Switzerland, tracking, playinghunches, finally locating the place where the Leader was hidden had usedalmost too much time, and the growth within him that would not wait waskilling him day by 

day. Even after finding the place, he'd been forced to slip past the guardswho were half protecting, half imprisoning the Leader and used half a hundredtricks to see him. Convincing him of the conspiracy of his "friends" to havehim shot was not hard; the Leader knew something of the duplicity of men inpower, or fearful of their lives. Convincing him of the rest of the plan hadbeen harder, but on the coldly logical argument that there was nothing else,
the Leader had come. Somehow, they'd escaped—he still could give no details onthat—and stolen this car, to run out into the rain and the night over themountain roads, through the back ways, and somehow out unnoticed and intoGermany again. 

The Leader settled more comfortably into the seat with an automatic motion,
his mind far from body comforts. "Bresseldorf? And near it—yes, I rememberthat clearly now—within fifteen miles of there, there's a small military depotthose damned British won't have found yet. There was a new plan—but thatdoesn't matter now; what matters are the tanks, and better, the ammunition.
This machine-will it duplicate tanks, also? And ammunition?" 

Meyers nodded. "Tanks, cars, equipment, all of them. But not ammunition orpetrol, since once used, they're not on the chain any longer to be taken." 


"No matter. God be praised, there's petrol and ammunition enough there, untilwe can reach the others; and a few men, surely, who are still loyal. I wasbeginning to doubt loyalty, but tonight you've shown that it does exist.
Someday, Karl Meyers, you'll find I'm not ungrateful." 

"Enough that I serve you," Meyers muttered. "Ah, here we are; good time made,
too, since it's but ten in the morning. That house is one I've rented; insideyou'll find wine and food, while I dispose of this car in the little lakeyonder. Fortunately, the air is still thick here, even though it's notraining. There'll be none to witness." 

The Leader had made no move to touch the food when Meyers* returned. He waspacing the floor, muttering to himself, working himself up as Meyers had seenhim do often before on the great stands in front of the crowds, and themumbled words had a hysterical drive to them that bordered on insanity. In hiseyes, though, there was only the insanity that drives men remorselessly torule, though the ruling may be under a grimmer sword than that of Damocles. Hestopped as he saw Meyers, and one of his rare and sudden smiles flashed out,
unexpectedly warm and human, like a small, bewildered boy peering out from thechinks of the man's 

armor. This was the man who had cried when he saw his soldiers dying, thensent them on again, sure they should honor him for the right to die; and likeall those most loved or hated by their fellow-men, he was a paradox ofconflictions, unpredictable. 

"The machine, Karl," he reminded the other gently. "As I remember, the JewChrist cast a thousand devils out of one man; well, let's see you cast tenthousand out of me—and devils they'll be to those who fetter the Reich! Thistime I think we'll make no words of secret weapons, but annihilate them first,
eh? After that—there'll be a day of atonement for those who failed me, and anew and greater Germany—master of a worldl" "Yes, my Leader." 

Meyers turned and slipped through the low door, back into a part of thebuilding that had once been a stable, but was now converted into a workshop,
filled with a few pieces of fine machinery and lialf a hundred makeshifts,
held together, it seemed, with hope and prayer. He stopped before a smallaffair, slightly larger than a suitcase, only a few dials and control knobsshowing on the panel, the rest covered with a black housing. From it, twosmall wires led to a single storage battery. 

"This?" The Leader looked at it doubtfully. "This, Leader. This is one casewhere brute power has little to do, and the proper use everything. A fewtubes, coils, condensers, two little things of my own, and perhaps five wattsof power feeding in —no more. Just as the cap that explodes the bomb may besmall and weak, yet release forces that bring down the very mountains. Simplein design, yet there's no danger of them finding it." "So? And it works inwhat way?" 

Meyers scowled, thinking. "Unless you can think in a plenum, my Leader, Ican't explain," he began diffidently. "Oh, mathematicians believe they can—butthey think in symbols and terms, not in the reality. Only by thinking in theplenum itself can this be understood, and with due modesty, I alone in thelong years since I gave up work at Heidelberg have devoted the time andeffort—with untold pure luck—to master such thought. It isn't encompassed inmere symbols on paper." 


"What," the Leader wanted to know, "is a plenum?" "A complete universe,
stretching up and forward and sidewise— and durationally; the last being thedifficulty. The plenum is—well, the composite whole of all that is and was andwill be—it is everything and everywhen, all existing together as a unit, inwhich time 

does not move, but simply is, like length or thickness. As an example,, yearsago in one of those American magazines, there was a story of a man who sawhimself. He came through a woods somewhere and Stumbled on a machine, got in,
and it took him three days back in. time. Then, he lived forward again, sawhimself get in the machine and go back. Therefore, the time machine was nevermade, since he always took it back, let it stay three days, and took it backagain. It was a closed circle, uncreated, but existent in the plenum. Bynormal nonplenar though, impossible." 

"Someone had to make it." The Leader's eyes clouded suspiciously. 

Meyers shook his head. "Not so. See, I draw this line upon the paper, callingthe paper now a plenum. It starts here, follows here, ends here. That is likelife, machines, and so forth. We begin, we continue, we end. Now, I draw acircle—where does it begin or end? Yes, followed by a two-dimensionalcreature, it would be utter madness, continuing forever without reason orbeginning—to us, simply a circle. Or, here I have a pebble—do you see at oneside the energy, then the molecules, then the compounds, then the stone,
followed by breakdown products? No, simply a stone. And in a plenum, that timemachine is simply a pebble—complete, needing no justification, since it was." 

The Leader nodded doubtfully, vaguely aware that he seemed to understand, butdid not. If the machine worked, though, what matter the reason? "And—" 

"And, by looking into the plenum as a unit, I obtain miracles, seemingly. Ipull an object back from its future to stand beside its present. I multiply itin the present. As you might take a straight string and bend it into a seriesof waves or loops, so that it met itself repeatedly. For that, I need somepower, yet not much. When I cause the bending from the future to the present,
I cause nothing—since, in a plenum, all that is, was and will be. When I bringyou back, the mere fact that you are back means that you always have existed*
and always will exist in that manner. Seemingly, then, if I did nothing, youwould still multiply, but since my attempt to create such a condition is fixedin the plenum beside your multiplying at this time, therefore I must do so.
The little energy I use, really, has only the purpose of not bringing youexactly within yourself, but separating individuals. Simple, is it not?" 

"When I see an example, Meyers, I'll believe my eyes," the Leader answered. 

Meyers grinned, and put a small coin on the ground, making quick 

adjustments of the dials. "I'll cause it to multiply from each two minutes,"
he said. "From each two minutes in the future, I'll bring it back to now.
See!" 

He depressed a switch, a watch in his hand. Instantly, there was a spreadingout and multiplying, instantaneous or too rapid to be followed. As he releasedthe switch, the Leader stumbled back from the hulking pile of coins. Meyersglanced at him, consulted his watch, and moved another lever at the top. Themachine clicked off. After a second or so, the pile disappeared, as quietly 


and quickly as it had come into being. There was a glint of triumph orsomething akin to it in the scientist's eyes as he turned back to the Leader. 

"I've tried it on myself for one turn, so it's safe to living things," heanswered the unasked question. 

The Leader nodded impatiently and stepped to the place where the coins hadbeen piled. "Get on with it, then. The sooner the accursed enemies andtraitors are driven out, the better it will be." 

Meyers hesitated. "There's one other thing," he said doubtfully. "When the—
others—are here, there might be a question of leadership, which would go illwith us. I mean no offense, my Leader, but —well, sometimes a man looks atthings differently at different ages, and any disagreement would delay us.
Fortunately, though, there's a curious by-product of the use of the machine;
apparently, its action has some relation to thought, and I've found in myexperiments that any strong thought on the part of the original will beduplicated in the others; I don't fully understand it myself, but it seems towork that way. The compulsion dissipates slowly and is gone in a day or so,
but—" "So?" 

"So, if you'll think to yourself while you're standing there: 'I must obey myoriginal implicitly; I must not cause trouble for my original or Karl Meyers,'
then the problem will be cared for automatically. Concentrate on that, myLeader, and perhaps it would be wise to concentrate also on the thought thatthere should be no talking by our legion, except as we demand." 

"Good. There'll be time for talk when the action is finished. Now, begin!" 

The Leader motioned toward the machine and Meyers breathed a 

sigh of relief as the scarred face crinkled in concentration. From a 

table at the side, the scientist picked up a rifle and automatic, put 

them into the other's hands, and went to his machine. 

"The weapon will be duplicated also," he said, setting the controls 

carefully. "Now, it should be enough if I take you back from each twenty-fourhours in the future. And since there isn't room here, I'll assemble theduplicates in rows outside. So." 

He depressed the switch and a red bulb on the control panel lighted. In theroom, nothing happened for a few minutes; then the bulb went out, and Meyersreleased the controls. "It's over. The machine has traced ahead and broughtback until there was no further extension of yourself; living, that is, sinceI set it for life only." 

"But I felt nothing." The Leader glanced at the machine with a slight scowl,
then stepped quickly to the door for a hasty look. Momentarily, superstitiousawe flicked across his face, to give place to sharp triumph. "Excellent,
Meyers, most excellent. For this day, we'll have the world at our feet, andthat soon!" 

In the field outside, a curious company was lined up in rows. Meyers ran hiseyes down the ranks, smiling faintly as he traced forward. Near, in almost 


exact duplication of the man at his side, were several hundred; then, as hiseyes moved backward, the resemblance was still strong, but differences beganto creep in. And farthest from him, a group of old men stood, their clothesfaded and tattered, their faces hidden under mangled beards. Rifles andautomatics were gripped in the hands of all the legion. There were also otherdetails, and Meyers nodded slowly to himself, but he made no mention of themto the Leader, who seemed not to notice. 

The Leader was looking ahead, a hard glow in his eyes, his face contorted withsome triumphant vision. Then, slowly and softly at first, he began to speakand to pace back and forth in front of the doorway, moving his arms. Meyersonly half listened, busy with his own thoughts, but he could have guessed thewords as they came forth with mounting fury, worked up to a climax and broke,
to repeat it all again. Probably it was a great speech the Leader was making,
one that would have swept a mob from their seats in crazy exultation in otherdays and set them screaming with savage applause. But the strange Legion ofLater Leaders stood quietly, faces betraying varying emotions, mostlyunreadable. Finally the speaker seemed to sense the difference and paused inthe middle of one of his rising climaxes; he half turned to Meyers, thensuddenly swung back decisively. 

"But I speak to myselves," he addressed the legion again in a level,
reasonable voice. "You who come after me know what is to be this day and inthe days to come, so why should I tell you? And you know that my cause isjust. The Jews, the Jew-lovers, the Pluto-democracies, the Bolsheviks, thetreasonous cowards within and without the 

Reich must be put down! They shall be! Now, they are sure of victory, buttomorrow they'll be trembling in their beds and begging for peace. And soon,
like a tide, irresistible and without end, from the few we can trust manyshall be made, and they shall sweep forward to victory. Not victory in adecade, nor a year, but in a month! We shall go north and south and east andwest! We shall show them that our fangs are not pulled; that those which welost were but our milk teeth, now replaced by a second and harder growth! 

"And for those who would have betrayed us, or bound us down in chains to feedthe gold lust of the mad democracies, or denied us the room to live which isrightfully ours—for those, we shall find a proper place. This time, for onceand for all, there shall be an end to the evils that corrupt the earth—theJews and the Bolsheviks, and their friends, and friends' friends. Germanyshall emerge, purged and cleansed, a new and greater Reich, whose domain shallnot be Europe, not this hemisphere, but the world! 

"Many of you have seen all this in the future from which you come, and all ofyou must be ready to reassure yourselves of it today, that the glory of it mayfill your tomorrow. Now, we march against a few peasants. Tomorrow, afterquartering in Bresseldorf, we shall be in the secret depot, where those whoremain loyal shall be privileged to multiply and join us, and where we shallmultiply all our armament ten-thousandfold! Into Bresseldorf, then, and if anyof the peasants are disloyal, be merciless in removing them! Forward!" 

One of the men in the front—the nearest—was crying openly, his face white, hishands clenched savagely around the rifle he held, and the Leader smiled at thedisplay of fervor and started forward. Meyers touched his shoulder. 

"My Leader, there is no need that you should walk, though these must. I have asmall auto here, into which we can put the machine. Send the legion ahead, and 


we'll follow later; they'll have little trouble clearing Bresseldorf for us.
Then, when we've packed our duplicator and I've assembled spare parts for anemergency, we can 

join them." 

"By all means, yes. The machine must be well handled." The Leader nodded andturned back to the men. "Proceed to Bresseldorf, then, and we follow. Securequarters for yourself and food, and a place for me and for Meyers; we stopthere until I can send word to the depot during the night and extend my plans.
To Bresseldorf!" 

Silently, without apparent organization, but with only small confusion, thelegion turned and moved off, rifles in hands. There were 

no orders, no beating of drums to announce to the world that the Leader was onthe march again, but the movement of that body of men, all gradations of thesame man, was impressive enough without fanfare as it turned into the roadthat led to Bresseldorf, only a mile away. Meyers saw a small cart comingtoward them, watched it halt while the driver stared dumbly at the companyapproaching. Then, with a shriek that cut thinly over the distance, he waswhipping his animal about and heading in wild flight toward the village. 

"I think the peasants will cause no trouble, my Leader," the scientistguessed, turning back to the shop. "No, the legion will be quartered by thetime we reach them." 

And when the little car drove up into the village square half an hour laterand the two men got out, the legion was quartered well enough to satisfy allprophets. There was no sign of the peasants, but the men from the future weremoving back and forth into the houses and shops along the street, carryingfoodstuffs to be cooked. Cellars and stores had been well gutted, and a fewpigs were already killed and being cut up—not skillfully, perhaps, but wellenough for practical purposes. 

The Leader motioned toward one of the amateur butchers, a copy of himself whoseemed perhaps two or three years older, and the man approached with frozenface. His knuckles, Meyers noted, were white where his fingers clasped aroundthe butcher knife he had been using. 

"The peasants—what happened?" 

The legionnaire's face set tighter, and he opened his mouth to say something;
apparently he changed his mind after a second, shut his mouth, and shrugged.
"Nothing," he answered finally. "We met a farmer on the road who went aheadshouting about a million troops, all the Leader. When we got here, there werea few children and women running off, and two men trying to drag away one ofthe pigs. They left it behind and ran off. Nothing happened." 

"Stupid dolts! Superstition, no loyalty!" The Leader twisted his lips,
frowning at the man before him, apparently no longer conscious that it wasmerely a later edition of himself. "Well, show us to the quarters you'vepicked for us. And have someone send us food and wine. Has a messenger beensent to the men at the tank depot?" 

"You did not order it." 


"What— No, so I didn't. Well, go yourself, then, if you . . . but, of course,
you know where it is. Naturally. Tell Hauptmann Immenhofl 

to expect me tomorrow and not to be surprised at anything. You'll have to goon foot, since we need the car for the machine." 

The legionnaire nodded, indicating one of the houses on the square. "Youquarter here. I go on foot, as I knew I would." He turned expressionlessly andplodded off to the north, grabbing up a half-cooked leg of pork as he passedthe fire burning in the middle of the 

square. 

The Leader and Meyers did not waste time following him with their eyes, butwent into the house indicated, where wine and food were sent in to themshortly. With the help of one of the duplicates, space was quickly cleared forthe machine, and a crude plank table drawn up for the map that came from theLeader's bag. But Meyers had little appetite for the food or wine, less forthe dry task of watching while the other made marks on the paper or stared offinto space in some rapt dream of conquest. The hellish tumor inside him wasgiving him no rest now, and he turned to his machine, puttering over itsinsides as a release from the pain. Outside, the legion was comparativelysilent, only the occasional sound of a man walking past breaking the monotony.
Darkness fell just as more food was brought in to them, and the scientistlooked out to see the square deserted; apparently the men had moved assilently as ever to the beds selected for the night. And still, the Leaderworked over his plans, hardly touching the food at his side. 

Finally he stirred. "Done," he stated. "See, Meyers, it is simple now.
Tomorrow, probably from the peasants who ran off, the enemy will know we arehere. With full speed, possibly they can arrive by noon, and though we startearly, fifteen miles is a long march for untrained men; possibly they couldcatch us on the road. Therefore, we do not march. We remain here." 

"Like rats in a trap? Remember, my Leader, while we have possibly ten thousandmen with rifles, ammunition can be used but once—so that our apparently largesupply actually consists of about fifty rounds at most." 

"Even so, we remain, not like rats, but like cheese in a trap. If we move,
they can strafe us from the air; if we remain, they send light tanks andtrucks of men against us, since they travel fastest. In the morning,
therefore, we'll send out the auto with a couple of older men—less danger oftheir being recognized—to the depot to order ImmenhofE here with one mediumtank, a crew, and trucks of ammunition and petrol. We allow an hour for theauto to reach Immen-hoff and for his return here. Here, they are duplicated toa thousand 

tanks, perhaps, with crews, and fueled and made ready. Then, when the enemyarrives, we wipe them out, move on to the depot, clean out our supplies there,
and strike north to the next. After that—" 

He went on, talking now more to himself than to Meyers, and the scientist onlypieced together parts of the plan. As might have been expected, it wasunexpected, audacious, and would probably work. Meyers was no military genius,
had only a rough working idea of military operations, but he was reasonablysure that the Leader could play the cards he was dealing himself and come outon top, barring the unforeseen in large quantities. But now, having conquered 


Europe, the Leader's voice was lower, and what little was audible no longermade sense to the scientist, who drew out a cheap blanket and threw himselfdown, his eyes closed. 

Still the papers and maps rustled, and the voice droned on in soft Snatches,
gradually falling to a whisper and then ceasing. There was a final rattling ofthe map, followed by complete silence, and Meyers could feel the other's eyeson his back. He made no move, and the Leader must have been satisfied by theregular breathing that the scientist was asleep, for he muttered to himselfagain as he threw another blanket on the floor and blew out the light. 

"A useful man, Meyers, now. But after victory, perhaps his machine would be amenace. Well, that can wait." 

Meyers smiled slightly in the darkness, then went back to trying to forcehimself to sleep. As the Leader had said, such things could wait. At themoment, his major worry was that the Army of Occupation might come an hour toosoon—but that also was nonsense; obviously, from the ranks of the legion, thatcould not be any part of the order of things. That which was would be, and hehad nothing left to fear. 

The Leader was already gone from the house when Meyers awoke. For a fewminutes the scientist stood staring at the blanket of the other, thenshrugged, looked at his watch, and made a hasty break* fast of wine andmorphine; with cancer gnawing at their vitals, men have small fear of drugaddiction, and the opiate would make seeming normality easier for a time.
There were still threads to be tied in to his own satisfaction, and littletime left in which to do it. 

Outside, the heavy dew of the night was long since gone, and the air was fullywarmed by the sun. Most of the legion were gathered in the square, somepreparing breakfast, others eating, but all in the same stiff silence that hadmarked their goings and comings since the first. Meyers walked out among themslowly, and their eyes followed him broodingly, but they made no other sign.
One of the earlier 

ones who had been shaving with a straight razor stopped, fingering the blade,
his eyes on the scientist's neck. 

Meyers stopped before him, half smiling. "Well, why not say it? What are youthinking?" 

"Why bother? You know." The legionnaire's fingers clenched around the handle,
then relaxed, and he went on with his shaving, muttering as his unsteady handmade the razor nick his skin. "In God's will, if I could draw this once acrossyour throat, Meyers, I'd cut my own for the right." 

Meyers nodded. "I expected so. But you can't. Remember? You must obey youroriginal implicitly; you must not cause trouble for your original or KarlMeyers; you must not speak to us or to others except as we demand. Of course,
in a couple of days, the compulsion would wear away slowly, but by that timewe'll both be out of reach of each other. . . . No, back! Stay where you areand continue shaving; from the looks of the others, you'll stop worrying aboutyour hair shortly, but why hurry it?" 

"Someday, somehow, I'll beat it! And then, a word to the original —or I'lltrack you down myself. God!" But the threatening scowl lessened, and the man 


went reluctantly back to his shaving, in the grip of the compulsion still.
Meyers chuckled dryly. "What was and has been—will be." 

He passed down the line again, in and out among the mingled men who werescattered about without order, studying them carefully, noting how they rangedfrom trim copies of the Leader in field coat and well kept to what might havebeen demented scavengers picking from the garbage cans of the alleys and backstreets. And yet, even the oldest and filthiest of the group was still thesame man who had come closer to conquering the known world than anyone sinceAlexander. Satisfied at last, he turned back toward the house where his 
quarters were. 

A cackling, tittering quaver at his right brought him around abruptly to facesomething that had once been a man, but now looked more like some animatedscarecrow. 

"You're Meyers," the old one accused him. "Shh! I know it. I remember. Heeyee, 
I remember again. Oh, this is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful! Do youwonder how I can speak? Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!" 

Meyers backed a step and the creature advanced again, leering, half dancing inexcitement. "Well, how can you speak? The compulsion shouldn't have worn offso soon!" 

"Hee! Hee-yee-yee! Wonderful!" The wreck of a man was dancing more franticallynow, rubbing his hands together. Then he sobered sharply, laughter bubblingout of a straight mouth and tapering off, like the drippings from a closedfaucet. "Shh! I'll tell you. Yes, tell you all about it, but you mustn't tellhim. He makes me come here every day where I can eat, and I like to eat. If heknew, he might not let me come. This is my last day; did you know it? Yes, mylast day. I'm the oldest. Wonderful, don't you think it's wonderful? I do." 

"You're crazy!" Meyers had expected it, yet the realization of the fact wasstill a shock to him and to his Continental background of fear of mentalunbalance. 

The scarecrow figure bobbed its head in agreement. "I'm crazy, yes—crazy. I'vebeen crazy almost a year now—isn't it wonderful? But don't tell him. It's niceto be crazy. I can talk now; I couldn't talk before—Tie wouldn't let me. Andsome of the others are crazy, too, and they talk to me; we talk quietly, andhe doesn't know. . . . You're Meyers, I remember now. I've been watching you,
wondering, and now I remember. There's something else I should remember—
something I should do; I planned it all once, and it was so clever, but now Ican't remember— You're Meyers. Don't I hate you?" 

"No. No, Leader, I'm your friend." In spite of himself, Meyers was shuddering,
wondering how to break away from the maniac. He was painfully aware that forsome reason the compulsion on which he had counted no longer worked; insanityhad thrown the normal rules overboard. If this person should remember fully—
Again Meyers shuddered, not from personal fear, but the fear that certainthings still undone might not be completed. "No, great Leader, I'm your realfriend. Your best friend. I'm the one who told him to bring you here to eat." 

"Yes? Oh, wonderful—I like to eat. But I'm not the Leader; he is ... and hetold me ... what did he tell me? Hee! I remember again, he told me to findyou; he wants you. And I'm the last. Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!
Now I'll remember it all, I will. Hee-yee-yee! Wonderful. You'd better go now, 


Meyers. He wants you. Isn't it wonderful?" 

Meyers lost no time in leaving, glad for any excuse, but wondering why theLeader had sent for him, and how much the lunatic had told. He glanced at hiswatch again, and at the sun, checking mentally, and felt surer as he enteredthe quarters. Then he saw there was no reason to fear, for the Leader had hismaps out again, and was 

nervously tapping his foot against the floor; but there was no personal angerin his glance. 

"Meyers? Where were you?" 

"Out among the legion, my Leader, making sure they were ready to beginoperations. All is prepared." 

"Good." The Leader accepted his version without doubt. "I, too, have beenbusy. The car was sent off almost an hour ago—more than an hour ago—to thedepot, and Immenhoff should be here at any moment. No sign of the enemy yet;
we'll have time enough. Then, let them come!" 

He fell back to the chair beside the table, nervous fingers tapping againstthe map, feet still rubbing at the floor, keyed to the highest tension, like acat about to leap at its prey. "What time is it? Hm-m-m. No sound of the tankyet. What's delaying the fool? He should be here now. Hadn't we best get themachine outside?" 

"It won't be necessary," Meyers assured him. "I'll simply run out a wire fromthe receiver to the tank when it arrives; the machine will work at aconsiderable distance, just as long as the subject is under some part of it." 

"Good. What's delaying Immenhoff? He should have made it long ago. And where'sthe courier I sent last night? Why didn't he report back? I-" 

"Hee-yee! He's smart, Leader, just as I once was." The tittering voice camefrom the door of their quarters, and both men looked up to see the old lunaticstanding there, running his fingers through his beard. "Oh, it was wonderful!
Why walk all that long way back when he knew it made no difference where hewas—the machine will bring him back, anyhow. Wonderful, don't you think it waswonderful? You didn't tell him to walk back." 

The Leader scowled, nodded. "Yes, I suppose it made no difference whether hecame back or not. He could return with Immenhoff." 

"Not he, not he! Not with Immenhoff." 

"Fool! Why not? And get out of here!" 

But the lunatic was in no hurry to leave. He leaned against the doorway,
snickering. "Immenhoff's dead—ImmenhofFs dead. Wonderful! He's been dead along time now. The Army of Occupation found him and he got killed. I rememberit all now, how I found him all dead when I was the courier. So I didn't comeback, because I was smart, and then I was back without walking. Wonderful,
wonderful, wonderful! I remember everything now, don't I?" 

"Immenhoff dead? Impossible!" The Leader was out of the chair, Stalking towardthe man, black rage on his face. "You're insane!" 


"Hee! Isn't it wonderful? They always said I was and now I am. But Immenhoff'sdead, and he won't come here, and there'll be no tanks. Oh, how wonderful,
never to march at all, but just come here every day to eat. I like to eat. . .
. No, don't touch me. I'll shoot, I will. I remember this is a gun, and I'llshoot, and the bullet will explode with noise, lots of noise. Don't come nearme." He centered the automatic squarely on the Leader's stomach, smirkinggleefully as he watched his original retreat cautiously back toward the table. 

"You're mad at me because I'm crazy—" A sudden effort of concentration sentthe smirk away to be replaced by cunning. "You know I'm crazy now! I didn'twant you to know, but I told you. How sad, how sad, isn't it sad? No, it isn'tsad, it's wonderful still, and I'm going to kill you. That's what I wanted toremember. I'm going to kill you, Leader. Now isn't that nice that I'm going tokill you?" 

Meyers sat back in another chair, watching the scene as he might have a stageplay, wondering what the next move might be, but calmly aware that he had nopart to play in the next few moments. Then he noticed the Leader's hand dropbehind him and grope back on the table for the automatic there, and hiscuriosity was satisfied. Obviously, the lunatic couldn't have killed theoriginal. 

The lunatic babbled on. "I remember my plan, Leader. I'll kill you, and thenthere won't be any you. And without you, there won't be any me. I'll neverhave to hunt for clothes, or keep from talking, or go crazy. I won't be atall, and it'll be wonderful. No more twenty years. Wonderful, isn't itwonderful? Hee-yee-yee! Oh, wonderful. But I like to eat, and dead men don'teat, do they? Do they? Too bad, too bad, but I had breakfast this morning,
anyhow. I'm going to kill you the next time I say 'wonderful,' Leader. I'mgoing to shoot and there'll be noise, and you'll be dead. Wonder—" • 

His lips went on with the motion, even as the Leader's hand whipped out frombehind him and the bullet exploded in his head with a sudden crash that splithis skull like a melon and threw mangled bits of flesh out through the door,
leaving half a face and a tattered old body to slump slowly toward the floorwith a last spasmodic kick. With a wry face, the Leader tossed the gun back onthe table and rolled the dead figure outside the door with his foot 

Meyers collected the gun quietly, substituting his watch, face up where hecould watch the minute hand. "That was yourself you shot, my Leader," hestated as the other turned back to the table. 

"Not myself, a duplicate. What matter, he was useless, obviously, with hisinsane babble of ImmenhofFs death. Or— The tank should have been here longbefore this! But Immenhoff couldn't have been discovered!" 

Meyers nodded. "He was—all the 'secret' depots were; I knew of it. And thebody you just tossed outside wasn't merely a duplicate—it was yourself as youwill inevitably be." 

"You—Treason!" Ugly horror and the beginnings of personal fear spread acrossthe Leader's face, twisting the scar and turning it livid. "For that-" 

Meyers covered him with the automatic. "For that," he finished, "you'll remainseated, Leader, with your hands on the table in clear view Oh, I have nointention of killing you, but I could stun you quite easily; I assure you, I'm 


an excellent shot." 

"What do you want? The reward of the invaders?" 

"Only the inevitable, Leader, only what will be because it has already been.
Here!" Meyers tossed a small leather wallet onto the table with his left hand,
flipping it open to the picture of a woman perhaps thirty-five years old.
"What do you see there?" 

"A damned Jewess!" The Leader's eyes had flicked to the picture and away,
darting about the room and back to it. 

"Quite so. Now, to you, a damned Jewess, Leader." Meyers replaced the walletgently, his eyes cold. "Once though, to me, a lovely and understanding woman,
interested in my work, busy about our home, a good mother to my children;
there were two of them, a boy and a girl—more damned Jews to you, probably. Wewere happy then. I was about to become a full professor at Heidelberg, we hadour friends, our life, our home. Some, of course, even then were filled withhatred toward the Jewish people, but we could stand all that. Can you guesswhat happened? Not hard, is it? 

"Some of your Youths. She'd gone to her father to stay with him, hoping itwould all blow over and she could come back to me without her presence hurtingme. They raided the shop one night, beat up her father, tossed her out of athird-story window, and made the children jump after her—mere sport, andpatriotic sport! When I found her at the home of some friends, the childrenwere dead and she was dying." 

The Leader stirred again. "What did you expect? That we should coddle everyJew to our bosom and let them bespoil the Reich again? You were a traitor toyour fatherland when you married her." 

"So I found out. Two years in a concentration camp, my Leader, 

taught me that, well indeed. And it gave me time to think. No matter how muchyou beat a man down and make him grovel and live in filth, he still may beable to think, and his thoughts may still find you out—you should have thoughtof that. For two years, I thought about a certain field of mathematics, and atlast I began to think about the thing instead of the symbols. And at last,
when I'd groveled and humbled myself, sworn a thousandfold that I'd seen thelight, and made myself something a decent man would spurn aside, they let meout again, ten years older for the two years there, and a hundred times wiser. 

"So I came finally to the little farm near Bresseldorf, and I worked as Icould, hoping that, somehow, a just God would so shape things that I could usemy discovery. About the time I'd finished, you fled, and I almost gave uphope; then I saw that in your escape lay my chances. I found you, persuadedyou to return, and here you are. It sounds simple enough now, but I wasn'tsure until I saw the legion. What would happen if I had turned you over to theArmy of Occupation?" 

"Eh?" The Leader had been watching the door, hoping for some distractingevent, but his eyes now swung back to Meyers. "I don't know. Is that what youplan?" 

"Napoleon was exiled; Wilhelm died in bed at Dorn. Are the leaders who causethe trouble ever punished, my Leader? I think not. Exile may not be pleasant, 


but normally is not too hard a punishment—normal exile to another land. I havedevised a slightly altered exile, and now I shall do nothing to you. What was—
will be—and I'll be content to know that eventually you kill yourself, afteryou've gone insane." Meyers glanced at the watch on the table, and his eyesgleamed savagely for a second before the cool, impersonal manner returned. 

"The time is almost up, my Leader. I was fair to you; I explained to the bestof my ability the workings of my invention. But instead of science, you wantedmagic; you expected me to create some pseudo-duplicate of yourself, yet leavethe real self unaltered. You absorbed the word 'plenum' as an incantation, butgave no heed to the reality. Remember the example I gave—a piece of stringlooped back on itself? In front of you is a string from some peasant's dress;
now, conceive that piece of string—it loops back, starts out again, and isagain drawn back—it does not put forth new feelers that do the returning tobase for it, but must come back by itself, and never gets beyond a certaindistance from itself. The coins that you saw in the 

pile disappeared—not because I depressed a switch, but because the two-minuteinterval was finished, and they were forced to return again to the previoustwo minutes." 

Escape thoughts were obviously abandoned in the mind of the Leader now, and hewas staring fixedly at Meyers while his hands played with the raveling from apeasant's garment, looping and un-looping it. "No," he said at last, and therewas a tinge of awe and pleading in his voice, the beginning of tears in hiseyes. "That is insane. Karl Meyers, you are a fool! Release me from this andeven now, with all that has happened, you'll still find me a man who canreward his friends; release me, and still I'll reconquer the world, half ofwhich shall be yours. Don't be a fool, Meyers." 

Meyers -grinned. "There's no release, Leader. How often must I tell you thatwhat is now will surely be; you have already been on the wheel—you mustcontinue. And—the time is almost here!" 

He watched the tensing of the Leader's muscles with complete calm, droppingthe automatic back onto his lap. Even as the Leader leaped from his chair in afrenzied effort and dashed toward him, he made no move. There was no need. Theminute hand of the watch reached a mark on the face, and the leaping figure ofthe world's most feared man was no longer there. Meyers was alone in thehouse, and alone in Bresseldorf. 

He tossed the gun onto the table, patting the pocket containing his wallet,
and moved toward the dead figure outside the door. Soon, if the Leader hadbeen right, the Army of Occupation would be here. Before then, he must destroyhis machine. 

One second he was dashing across the room toward the neck of Karl Meyers, thenext, without any feeling of change, he was standing in the yard of the houseof Meyers, near Bresseldorf, and ranging from him and behind him were rows ofothers. In his hands, which had been empty a second before, he clutched arifle. At his side was belted one of the new-issue automatics. And before him,
through the door of the house that had been Karl Meyers', he could see himselfcoming forward, Meyers a few paces behind. 

For the moment there were no thoughts in his head, only an endless refrainthat went: "I must obey my original implicitly; I must not cause trouble formy original or Karl Meyers; I must not speak to anyone unless one of those two 


commands. I must obey my original implicitly; I must not cause trouble—" By aneffort, he stopped the march of the words in his head, but the force of themwent on, an undercurrent to all his thinking, an endless and inescapable orderthat must be obeyed. 

Beside him, those strange others who were himself waited ex-pressionlesslywhile the original came out into the doorway and began to speak to them.
"Soldiers of the Greater Reich that is to be . . . Let us be merciless in 
avenging . . . The fruits of victory. . . ." Victory! Yes, for Karl Meyers.
For the man who stood there beside the original, a faint smile on his face,
looking out slowly over the ranks of the legion. 

"But I speak to myselves. You who come after me know what is to be this dayand in the days to come, so why should I tell you? And you know that my causeis just. The Jews, the Jew-lovers—" The words of the original went maddeninglyon, words that were still fresh in his memory, words that he had spoken onlytwenty-four hours before. 

And now, three dead Jews and a Jew-lover had brought him to this. Somehow, hemust stop this mad farce, cry out to the original that it was treason andmadness, that it was far better to turn back to the guards in Switzerland, orto march forth toward the invaders. But the words were only a faint whisper,
even to himself, and the all-powerful compulsion choked even the whisper offbefore he could finish it. He must not speak to anyone unless one of those twocommanded. 

Still the words went on. "Not victory in a decade, nor a year, but in a month!
We shall go north and south and east and west! We shall show them that ourfangs are not pulled; that those which we lost were but our milk teeth, nowreplaced by a second and harder growth! 

"And for those who would have betrayed us, or bound us down in chains to feedthe gold lust of the mad democracies, or denied us the room to live which isrightfully ours—for those, we shall find a proper place. This time, for onceand for all, there shall be an end to the evils that corrupt the earth—theJews and the Bolsheviks, and their friends, and friends' friends. Germanyshall emerge, purged and, cleansed, a new and greater Reich, whose domainshall not be Europe, nor this hemisphere, but the world! 

"Many of you have seen all this in the future from which you come, and all ofyou must be ready to reassure yourselves of it today, that the glory of it mayfill your tomorrow. Now, we march against a few peasants. Tomorrow, afterquartering in Bresseldorf, we shall be in the secret depot, where those whoremain loyal shall be privileged to multiply and join us, and where we shallmultiply all our armament ten-thousandfold! Into Bresseldorf, then, and if anyof the peasants are disloyal, be merciless in removing the scum! Forward!" 

His blood was pounding with the mockery of it; and his hands 

were clutching on the rifle. Only one shot from the gun, and Karl Meyers woulddie. One quick move, too sudden to defeat, and he would be avenged. Yet, as hemade the first effort toward lifting the rifle, the compulsion surged upward,
drowning out all other orders of his mind. He must not cause trouble for hisoriginal or Karl Meyers! 

He could feel the futile tears on his face as he stood there, and the mereknowledge of their futility was the hardest blow of all. Before him, his 


original was smiling at him and starting forward, to be checked by Meyers, andto swing back after a few words. 

"Proceed to Bresseldorf, then, and we follow. Secure quarters for yourself andfood, and a place for me and for Meyers; we stop there until I can send wordto the depot during the night and extend my plans. To Bresseldorf!" 

Against his will, his feet turned then with the others, out across the yardand into the road, and he was headed toward Bresseldorf. His eyes swept overthe group, estimating them to be six or seven thousand in number; and thatwould mean twenty years, at one a day—twenty years of marching to Bresseldorf,
eating, sleeping, eating again, being back at the farm, hearing the original'sspeech, and marching to Bresseldorf. Finally—from far down the line, a titterfrom the oldest and filthiest reached him—finally that; madness and death atthe hands of himself, while Karl Meyers stood by, watching and gloating. He nolonger doubted the truth of the scientist's statements; what had been, wouldbe. 

For twenty years! For more than seven thousand days, each the same day, eachone step nearer madness. God! 

The readers were less enthusiastic about my Hitler story than Campbell was.
Probably I made a mistake, in the temper of the times, in not making Hitlermore grotesque. But I wouldn't change it; to me, the ruthless hunger for powerwithout other purpose for that power is evil enough. I still agree with myfriend, Milt Rothman, who told me it was the best piece of writing I'd done inscience fiction. He called much of my other writing lackadaisical, and I cansee what he meant, though I don't quite accept that word. 

By the beginning of 1942, everyone was caught up in a big fervor ofpatriotism. The magazines issued by Street and Smith were planning tocooperate with others by using nothing but a flag on their July issues. AndCampbell asked me to do a story of patriotic fantasy 

for Unknown to go with the cover; I suspect my Hitler story had made himchoose me. 

I had a hard job rejecting all the obvious ideas. Angels coming down to helpthe soldiers, as they were supposed to have done in World War I. Merlin comingback to help us. The Little People rising in wrath. There were hundreds ofideas, all bad, and Henry (the little man in back of my mind) tossed every oneat me. 

The trouble was that most of such ideas get pretty sticky about halfwaythrough and cease being stories by overdoing the propaganda. But I was savedby remembering that the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier lay just outside ofWashington. I wanted a fairly quiet, restrained story. 

Campbell sent the i2,6oo-word novelette back for two reasons. First, I woundup with my hero just walking up and down guarding the tomb all by himself,
which was a pretty bootless contribution. And second, I indicated that my heromight have an affair with a flesh-and-blood girl. That, Campbell insisted,
would be horrible to most readers. 

I agreed with the first objection, and set about dragging out other elementsI'd buried in the first version to fix it. I didn't agree with the second, andsort of fudged it by taking out only the specific references. Campbell spotted 


my trick, but let it get by. But the price was $126—with no bonus. 

It's dated now, of course, and the world no longer can react properly to thestory. But I'm still rather fond of "Though Poppies Grow." 

12. 
Though Poppies Grow (by Lester del Rey) 

Vaguely he was aware that he should have been some heroic figure, stalkingalong with his head up and the fire of high devotion in his eyes. His shoesshould have gleamed brightly, his chin should have been firm and square, andthere should have been a glint of devil-

may-care recklessness in his expression, an appealing quirk to the smile heshould be wearing. For a few seconds, he tried to simulate the dashing, heroicfigure in his mind, but the best he could do was a wry grimace at his ownthoughts. 

Service shoes, mud-spattered, scratched, and with a hole picked out of onetoe, were blunt and heavy on his feet—there'd been no time for polish. Thewraparound leggings were correctly done, but somehow they were lacking in anytrim smartness. And the dirty suit of khaki was hardly the raiment of a hero,
especially when topped by a trench cap roughly mended. A cord around the tightcollar supported a grim gas mask, and a lumpy rucksack was on his back, butthe holster on his hip was empty; his hands felt lost without a rifle andbayonet in them. 

"Lost" was the right word; his whole feeling was one of being lost, ofwandering in a dirty fog, slushing through muck and mire, aimlessly, dimlyconscious of some high mission, not quite believable. And with that in hismind, it was too much to ask his body to assume heroism. Instead, he trudgedalong quietly, neither trim nor quite careless, his eyes turning slowly fromside to side, but somehow without much curiosity. 

He stopped then, to fish for a cigarette, and realized his last butt wasalready gone. "Wish I had a cigarette, at least," popped into his mind,
something someone had said once, while lying down in a muddy hole watching theblood trickle out slowly. For a moment, the scene was crystal clear, then itfaded back and was gone, and he turned on with a shrug; he'd been withoutsmokes before, would be again. A thin, average-height youth, with somethingalmost haunted in his eyes, lips tensed a trifle, lost without name or placeor knowledge of why he was there. 

But there was nothing to do but go on, and the hazy idea that he had to go onwas fixed in his mind. Back there in that place, he'd felt it—had been feelingit grow until he could no longer resist, and had risen and come out into astrange world where no guns boomed ominously to suggest a coming drive, andwhere a clean, well-paved road led down through the early mist to this bridgethat ran over a river, somewhere. 

It was a clean, white bridge, and beyond it was the suggestion of somebuilding, looming up quietly ahead. There was neither mud nor dust, no shellholes, no barbed wire, no men screaming out their last breaths, just beyondthe reach of their comrades—like Tommy. The picture of Tommy out there on thewire, pleading to them to shoot 


him and get it over with, was the one sharply etched memory that was left.
Tommy'd been there for hours, screaming between the roars of the guns andwhine of the shells, begging them to finish it off for him; and they'd huddledback behind the bags, risking death at intervals in an attempt to center arifle on him and grant his wish-uselessly; Death hadn't been ready for Tommyyet. 

And then it had been too much. Someone with them had laughed, gripping hishead, and dropped his rifle to go out there, over the sandbags, and throughthe debris of shell holes and mud, running, not bravely but hysterically andcrazily to where Tommy was caught and dying too slowly. Twice fragments hadhit him, and he'd staggered back to jump forward again. Tommy'd seen therunning figure and somehow Tommy'd straightened up a little in the snarl andmanaged to shake his head, yelling now for the runner to go back, swearingwith oaths learned only at the right hand of Death. Somehow, the runner hadmade it, and groped down with pliers for the wire holding Tommy helplessthere, just as a shell burst somewhere with a jar. Then Tommy'd slumped back,
silent. 

Beyond that, the picture vanished, and the man on the bridge shook his head.
He couldn't remember who'd been the crazy fool to run out then, nor what hadhappened to him; he'd probably been blown into small pieces—if he was lucky.
Shells could do funny things. For all he knew, Tommy's would-be rescuer mighthave been himself. Why not? That had been a long time ago, from the time-sensethat had gone on measuring out the passing days and years and was still a partof him, but between the incident and the moment when he'd stirred restlesslyand climbed out into the morning mist, he had no pictures, no feeling eventhat there should be pictures. It fitted his mood that he should be dead.
There were no angels around, but his religion had been the rather hazy feelingof a Godp somewhere who let a man go on after he shuffled off his flesh.
Angels would have been nice, but not necessary to the thing. Somewhere inschool, he'd been taught of Asgard and the Norse Valhala, where the warriorscame up over the bridge Bifrost to enter Odin's halls and fight and eat anddie and fight again. 

Again he grimaced. Bunk! Under his feet was good cement, and the asphalt onthe road wasn't exactly heavenly. Neither were the graceful autos that passedin increasing numbers, low and rounded in lines, and mercifully silent. Thiswas some part of the same crazy world, though he didn't know where, nor howhe'd gotten there, nor 

what he'd been doing in all the time he could feel had passed. He didn't muchcare. 

Ahead of him, another figure appeared, clad in khaki, also, but a khaki thathad more green and less yellow in it. In mild curiosity he examined the trimuniform, wondering when they'd issued clothes like that—they looked like across between service uniform and civvies. Long pants, no leggings, a well-
draped coat and, of all things, an open lapel and soft-collared shirt. Habitled his eyes to the gold bars on the shoulders, and his arm came up in agesture that was almost pure conditioned reflex, yet still not quite snappy. 

The lieutenant returned it smoothly, started on past, and then slowed to starein a puzzled frown, glancing from the uniform to the boyish face, and back.
"Where'd you get it?" 

"France, sir. Where else? The ones we got here fitted." 


"France? Mister, you're a da—" The lieutenant's eyes caught the boy's then,
and he dropped his own, fumbling for a cigarette. "Sorry. You looked so—
Anyway, none of my business. Smoke?" 

"Thanks, sir." He drew in on the cigarette with a grateful relief from thegnawing little tension that had been in his muscles, saluted again, and wenton toward the white building that loomed up closer now, and clearer as thesultry heat of the day began dispersing the fog. At least he knew for surethat this wasn't France—it could only be America. When you've been away longenough, you get to know the walk of a man on foreign land, and the lieutenanthadn't had it. Funny, he'd never expected to get back here, and now hecouldn't tell how he'd done it. 

Then the bridge came to an end, and he was facing a circular roadway aroundthe building; he knew where he was for sure, now. Few buildings carry theindividuality of the Lincoln Memorial, and there could be no mistaking it.
Beyond it, in confirmation, was the spire of the Washington Monument, andbetween them, as he circled, he caught sight of the Reflecting Pool. He'd seendozens of picture postcards, and there'd been the guide books an aunt hadbrought back from her trip to Washington, showing an artist's rendering ofwhat it would all look like when finished. Well, he'd meant to see it sometimefor himself, and now he was looking at it, wondering only faintly how he'dcome to the capital. 

He completed the half circle, and stood looking out over the Pool toward theMonument and on to where the dome of the Capitol showed in the now clear airover the trees on the Monument grounds, then swung back to face the statue ofLincoln, sitting calmly gazing 

over it all, enshrined like the old Greek gods in their temples. There was nothrill, no lift of spirits in the boy's mind, but he stood there for longmoments, feeling the calm peace and sure purpose of the masterpiece. And as helooked, the feeling of purpose and some call to duty began to flow through hismind again. There was a reason for his presence here, and it was up to him tofind it. Feeling half silly, he brought his arm up in a smarter salute to thestatue than the lieutenant had received, turned and headed toward the cityproper. 

He was walking slightly more slowly, the stride of someone used to exhaustionand no longer capable of feeling fatigued or rested, as he came to the redlight. This, he saw, was Fourteenth Street, and he'd been following New YorkAvenue for the last block; Pennsylvania Avenue, which had carried him past theWhite House, had vanished somewhere, and he had no desire to trace itswindings. As he stood there, the light changed, and he started across,
sticking to the general direction he'd been following for the last half hour.
Already the streets were filling with people, and he could feel theiroccasional stares, but by now he'd learned the trick of turning to meet theireyes. Invariably, they dropped their gaze and went on, without looking back. 

The girls had bothered him most, at first. He remembered faintly the girlswho'd said good-bye to them back home, and was aware more strongly of the timeand changes since then. He'd blushed like a fool when he saw the first youngwoman walking along, her short skirt showing her legs, her sheer blouseconcealing all too little of the lace and silken things she wore beneath. Butthere'd been a freshness and cleanness about her that left no doubts in his 
head. Now he was becoming used to the cosmetics, the red fingernails, the 


revealing feminine clothes, and the free, confident carriage. There was anache inside him somewhere that the French hussies who'd come out to the 
doughboys had never brought there, a queer tingling pride in this country thatcould produce such girls. He caught himself reach-' ing out with slightlytrembling fingers to touch the arm of one of them, jerked it back, and blushedagain, hot with the feeling of his own foolishness. A man who'd get fresh withthese deserved shooting or worse. 

Sloppy sentimentality, he told himself. What he needed was breakfast. Wonderif he could wangle a little white-bread toast and coffee with sugar? There'dbeen letters about that in the trenches, and of how fifteen pounds ofsubstitutes had to be bought for one pound ol good white flour. He shruggedand turned into a restaurant at 

Twelfth Street after jingling his pocket hastily to make sure he had themoney. The counter was filled, and he ran his eyes over the booths, wonderingwhether to wait or take up one of them by himself. 

It was then he saw the girl sitting alone, reading a newspaper, and the queerache came over him again. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but somehow lovely,
her brown hair falling softly to the shoulders, her face a trifle gaminish,
with a dash of Irish around the mouth, and a smoothness of line that made whatmight have been thinness seem utterly feminine. You can't describe a girl likethat, he thought, knowing it was sloppy and not caring; you just look at herand feel 

it-She seemed to sense his gaze, for her eyes met his. That did it. How 

an impish provocativeness could be blended with na'ive innocence and a traceof maternalism, he couldn't have told, but her eyes held all that, even asthey registered faint distrust. He started forward, crimson again, butimpelled by the craving for feminine words that he'd been feeling for the lasthour. 

"I ... sorry if I'm rude—" Her eyes were still on his, and he stopped. Hecouldn't do it, even though she'd been the first one who hadn't jerked herglance away. He started to turn, just as she smiled, a half-amused, half-
puckish lighting of her face. "Oh, darn it, miss, I don't want to be. . .but—" 

"Why not sit down? I suppose I should, but I don't mind." She pushed the paperaway from her and motioned to the seat opposite. He slid in awkwardly, and shesmiled in honest amusement that was less embarrassing than any attempt tocover it would have been. "You act as if you'd never seen a girl before,
soldier." 

"It's not quite that bad, miss. But—well, over there, things were different.
We didn't see the nice ones, and the others—" He dropped it and ordered histoast and coffee. "Seems funny, getting back to America. Over there in France,
I thought I'd never make it." 

"Over there in France? You were fighting the Nazis?" She'd finished herbreakfast and was digging into her handbag. A cigarette came out and shelighted it casually while he stared. But no one else seemed to notice, andthere were so many strange things that he decided to forget it. 

"What Nazis? All I know is that we were supposed to be fighting the Kaiser,
but after we got there, all I ever saw were a bunch of boys on the other side 


in different helmets. We were too busy fighting to be fighting anyone inparticular, even when we called them Heinies." 

Her eyes were wide now, and she shook her head, suspicion written large on herface. "Kaiser? Heinies? But that was twenty-five years ago; and you're noolder than I am. My father was over there with them; he married Mom after hecame back." 

The boy made no comment. Twenty-five years! Her paper was still lying open,
and he glanced at it, to see her words confirmed. "July 3, 1942." And hisworld was built around 1918. The girl's father had returned from the World Warto marry her mother! 

They'd pulled him out of college in '17, put him in a camp for hastyinstructions, run him across on a troopship, and then there'd been the longmonths of death and mud. There'd been the starving French girls and Tommy and—
Then other men had come back, married, brought up children and put themthrough college, while he felt that nothing had happened to him. Even the mudspots on his clothes seemed the same old familiar ones, and the stubble on hisface was still a yellow down, hardly needing a razor. He was nibbling at thetoast and tasting the coffee as he thought it over in his head, but he pushedthem back. He had no need of them—there was something wrong with the idea ofeating now, and only old habit had driven him to try it. 

She was speaking again. "Yet, I guess I believe you—I don't know why. The wayyour eyes look—Dad always had the same thing in his when he talked about thatwar. And your uniform doesn't look like a parade getup. There's somethingabout you—as if I knew you, or something. How—" 

"I don't know," he answered slowly. "I don't know anything—my own name, even,
how I got here, where I'm going, what I'm to do. I can remember the whine ofshells one minute, then something made me get up this morning and come out,
looking for something I've got to do. I don't even know what a returneddoughboy can do in peacetime." * 

"It isn't exactly peacetime." She looked at the clock, frowned, and turnedback to him, holding out the paper. "I shouldn't believe you, but I do. AndI'm supposed to be at work in ten minutes, yet I'm going to be late just totell you what's been going on. I wonder why I'm not surprised, but I'm not." 

It was much later when he sat back, nodding. Hitler, Mussolini, Japan—nolonger an ally, but an enemy, ruthless and without principles. France, nolonger a battleground for democracy, but in the hands of the invaders. Andthis time they weren't merely Heinies, 

but something grimmer and uglier, Nazis who devoted themselves to the bloodaltar of a barbarian racial fanaticism. 

"To make the world safe for democracy,'" he quoted softly. Funny, he'd reallybelieved that, in spite of himself. He'd laughed at it among his cynicalcollege friends, and yet all of them must have been swept up by it, with theold crusading spirit. It had been a bright vision, even in the mud of France,
a hope for the world; and a few power-mad idiots had taken only twenty-fiveyears to trample it down into the ground and begin all over again. 

"Bitter?" she asked. 


He shook his head. "No, somehow I'm not. We were right, then, I think. Ifthere'd been no need to make the world safe for democracy, then all this wouldnever have happened afterward. We just figured we could'do it all in oneswoop, and it seems to take more doing than that. I should have known; I wasmajoring in history before it began. No other major conflict was ever finishedin five years, or fifty years. You have to keep fighting for your side untilsomeday there isn't any other side, because you've conquered it a little at atime and the grandchildren of the men you fought believe the same as you do.
Then there'll be something else to fight about. But the important thing isthat little by little things do get ahead that way. We had to fight theRevolutionary War to start democracy, the Civil War to keep it, the World Warto save the others who felt as we did and tried to extend it, and this war thesame. It's like gold mining, you might say." 

"I don't get it." 

He didn't entirely himself. Principles were vague things to die for, and yetsometimes they were worth dying and killing for. Usually the direct action waseasier than trying to understand clearly why you had to do it. "Well, theprospectors found themselves mines by working harder hunting for it andkeeping at it, believing that there was gold there if they'd work for it. Theydug it out and began thinking about bringing out their families, and thensomebody jumped their claims with a gun in his hand. They had to fight him forit, and probably fight his kind more than once, fight out false claims incourt, and maybe at last come through with it, bring out their families andhelp build up one of our modern cities where others could live and worksafely. If anything's worth having—mine, family, flag, country, or democracy—
it's worth fighting for, and you'll have to fight for it." "I never thought ofit that way. But you've already fought once— and it didn't seem to do muchgood, did it?" 

He grinned slowly, realizing that her question was not meant as an argumentagainst his, but only a probe for his reaction. "It gave me the chance tofight again—maybe this way we can beat them someday and keep the gold; theother way, we never could. And this time, I'm going to enlist—that's probablywhat I felt I had to do all the time." 

"And I'm going to be bawled out for being two hours late, but I don't care. .
. . No, I'll pay my own check." She reached for it, but he had it in his handalready, and was groping in his pocket for the change that had rattled there. 

It came out—seven francs and four centimes. There was nothing else, though hegroped back again in frantic hope. There were only the eleven pieces, datedfrom 1904 to 1915, and all coins of France— a France that no longer had anyreal existence except in the mind of its still rebellious people. He stoodthere helplessly staring at them, his face reddening slowly, and puzzlementvying with the embarrassment. Even the coins he carried were the same coinsthat had been in his pocket in France the day that. . . that. . . 

He almost had it when she pulled him back to the seat. "Easy, soldier. It'sall right. I understand—or I seem to understand, at least. Here." She had herhandbag open and was pushing a bill into his hand. He saw that it was abouthalf the size of the bills he'd remembered, and that Lincoln's picture wasstill on the five-dollar note. And the memory that had almost come to him wasgone again. 

"But-" 


"Shh. You can pay it back someday. Here, I'll take these as security." She wassmiling at him, and the maternal part of her eyes was uppermost then as shepicked the French coins out of his hand and Stuck them into her pocketbook.
"And here's my name and address, So you can return it. A soldier needs somemoney to carry him until payday, you know. Besides, I don't have anyone in theservice writing, me, and this will give me a good excuse to ask you. You willkeep it?" 

For an instant, he was afraid he was going to cry in front of her, but hemanaged to control most of it. "What else can I do, when you make it sound sonatural? I—oh, you know what I feel about it." 

She smiled and nodded again. "I'm glad. Write often, and good luck!" Then hewas paying the checks and buying cigarettes, while she went down the streetaway from him, her short skirt no longer Something strange to him, but a partof the spirit of her. He asked the cashier for directions, and she gave themwith eyes carefully away 

from his. Now to enlist and quiet the strengthened urge to do his part again. 

Out on the street, it seemed hard to realize that this was the capital of anation—his nation—at war. Particularly when he remembered that tomorrow wasthe Fourth of July, most patriotic of all the national holidays. Oh, therewere children with their cap pistols already, and the posters everywhereadvertising Defense Bonds, silence to keep secrets from the enemy, and similarthings, but there was none of the blatant hysteria of the last war, as heremembered it. And yet, in the quietness with which everyone went about hisbusiness, he sensed a determination that was more solidly based than it hadbeen in '17. 

The newspapers, he saw, were filled with news, some good and some bad, fromwhat he could tell, and there was bickering in Congress, and accusations ofwar profiteering, of "too little, too late," and other current cries. Butthose things had happened before, and this time there was more control thanthere had been. It was impossible for any large nation to agree on alldetails^ useless to hope that some shortsighted people would not try to turnthe general trouble into a lever to use for their own selfish purpose. Thosethings were a part of war, as much as the fighting. But this was a healthyspirit around him, a calmer, more determined spirit. Before, in America therehad been the cries and the shoutings, the loud oratory, and disorderedscrambling that had been in severe contrast to the actual frontline spirit.
This was no longer a people trying to convince themselves that they shouldfight for a principle, but a people who knew they had to, just as the soldiersat the front must know. He pushed on toward the recruiting office, more atease than he'd been since he'd come out of the place in the morning. Thiswould be a better war to fight in. 

There were a few men already there, sitting in chairs and waiting their turn.
They were ordinary enough young men, mostly, though one oldster was vehementlyprotesting his ability, and there was a small amount of good-natured kiddinggoing on. The man on his right turned to say something, caught his glance, andsettled back quietly. Something about him was different; their looks weren'tones of fear, but of minding their own business, something like the expressionof a soldier who'd started to address another familiarly, and then caught theinsignia of a major just in time to check it. 


They came to him in time, with the inevitable papers that were different butstrongly familiar. At least, there was less of the hurried, impersonaltreatment here than there had been in the draft center 

the last time; probably some of the prejudice in favor of enlistment stilllasted, though he'd learned that the matter was no test as to a man's courageat the front. He filled in as he came to the questions, pulling his answersout of the air, conscious that a lot of them were probably the correct ones,
but sure of none. He stated his age minus the lapse of twenty-five years, andno questions were raised, nor was the matter of his outmoded uniform broughtup. Once a new man came into the office and stared for a second before turningon, but he seemed under a blanket protection. Wearing even a last-war uniformshould have been a matter for suspicion in an enlistee, but there seemed to benone. 

"You forgot to put down your name," he was told. Name? He had none. But hiseye fell on the belt of a uniform at the other end of the room and he wrotedown "Sam Brown" quietly. "Middle name?" 

"None." 

"Okay, might as well get your medical over with. In there." 

He went in, behind two others who were discussing their surprise at the promptmedicals; they'd expected to have to wait for notice, as in the case ofdraftees. He was free from expectation or curiosity, his mind almost empty ashe waited his turn. 

Finally one of the doctors indicated him. "Sam Brown next. Dr. Feldman, takethis one." 

Feldman took him in tow, into a place where another man was dressing. "Strip."
And still there was no comment on his uniform, though he was surprised himselfto see the gashed underclothes, stained and muddy. A bath and fresh clotheswould have come in handy. 

"Step up here; stand straight. Good. Weight, one hundred forty-three; height,
five feet nine and one-half inches. A little thin, but not too bad. Bendover." It went on through the old routine, and finally the strap was wrappedaround his arm for blood pressure, pumped up, and Dr. Feldman looked at thegauge, which held no meaning for him. "Systolic. . . umm. Wait a minute." 

The medico brought out a stethoscope, listened carefully, moved it, andlistened again. "Just a minute. Dr. Palz, will you come here?" And again itwas repeated, this time by Palz. Feldman looked on carefully. "Well?" 

Palz nodded. "If you mean—then I do get the same results. Hmm. All right,
young man, if you'll jump from one leg to another twenty times . . . Good."
And it was all begun for the third time, now with 

muttered consultations going on between the two doctors. "We're probably bothcrazy, Dr. Feldman, but—" 

"Yeah." Feldman rubbed his hands against his side. "Yeah. When in doubt— I'msorry, Mr. Brown, but I'm afraid you won't do. You can dress now." 

The boy looked slowly from one to the other, and he drew nothing from their 


incredulous expressions. He'd been sure there would be no trouble that way—
he'd passed the draft physicals with an A-i rat- ij ing, and while thefighting at the front had been tough, surely it ] hadn't softened him—unlessthere had been something in the years J between that he couldn't remember.

1 

"Soldier's heart?" he ventured, remembering talk of men whose! hearts raced,
weakened, and failed at the first real sign of exercise. "You mean my heart'stoo fast?" 

"Hardly too fast—no." Feldman looked at him thoughtfully and almost fearfully.
"If I had time of my own, I'd— You can leave by that door." 

That was no answer. "Doctor, what's the reason then? Oh, I gather it's myheart, but what's wrong with it?" 

Again Feldman studied him before answering. "Don't you know?" 

"No. I wouldn't ask if I did." 

"Then feel your own pulse, man. That's all." 

He stumbled out, wondering, into one of the little parks that seemed to be allover the capital, drawing slowly at a cigarette. He wasn't sure he wanted totry it—anything that had such a reaction on men who were familiar with allkinds of disorders must be pretty bad. But as he finished the cigarette, hemashed it out under his heel and put his finger to his pulse. 

There was none! 

Nor was there a sign of heartbeat when he held his hand there; the arteryunder his neck gave the same answer. Five times he tried it. No heartbeat.
Even when he jumped from the bench and ran wildly through the park and downthe street to another, he could detect no faintest sign of a pulse anywhere.
Yet he was panting, and he had the feeling of hot blood coursing through himand sweat pouring off. He pressed his hand under his armpit and drew it away—
dry! His skin showed no slightest sign of moisture anywhere, though the daywas as hot and sticky as any he'd known—typical Washington summer weather,
he'd gathered from various uncomplimentary remarks. 

Curiously, there was no excitement in him. His brain should have 

been turning frantically from point to point for some rational explanation,
but he sought none. Instead, he got up from the bench and went up EleventhStreet with a slow, even stride, across E Street, through the crowds at F, andbeyond G toward H, his only thought being the counting off of the blocks asthey came. Then a little novelty shop caught his eye, and he went in. 

"Do you have a small mirror—anything at all, just something cheap?" 

The woman nodded and handed across a small square of glass. "Ten cents," shesaid, and dropped her eyes hastily to the coin as he looked at her. 

He stuck it in his pocket and went out onto Eleventh again, carefully awarethat the heat and walking were making him breathe heavily; he was conscious ofthe fairly rapid rise and fall of his chest, of the slightly choking feelingthat comes from too much humidity in the air. He held the mirror up to his 


mouth, drew it back, and in-tpected it before tossing it away. 

Its work was done. There was no condensed moisture on it from his breath. He'd 
expected it, and again there was the curious lack of emotional response. Quitecalmly he faced the fact that by two standard tests he was dead. But it was asenseless paradox of death that •ccmed to breathe but didn't—the cigarettesmoke eddied slowly from his mouth as he watched, but the mirrow showed nosign of moisture. To hell with it; at worst, it was a highly vital death. 

No wonder they'd turned him down, though; the miracle was that they hadn'tgone crazy, though he supposed it would take a lot to do that to a doctor—orwould it? Weren't they used to certain absolute facts, such as that a livingman automatically included a beating heart, and when confronted with aviolation of their fundamental law, wouldn't it hit them harder? He didn'tknow. 

And perversely, the feeling that he had been called forth for some job thatneeded doing was stronger than ever. And the people about him were suddenlystrangers, walking in a strange world. That feeling passed, and he felt normalagain, except for the urge to do something and the knowledge that he wasunable seemingly to find it. 

One of the boxes in the shops along the street which were giving out music andspeeches—"radios," apparently, since the shop was advertising the things underthat name—broke off its news report of some action taking place in the Pacificand began one of the announcements he heard several times already. "Men, UncleSam needs 

your help. If you're a skilled worker . . ." There was more of it, but hestopped listening, turning it over in his mind. 

His skill was limited. Before the war, he'd been an unlicked cub of a kid,
filled with a kid's idle dreams and hazy desires to do something, but unsureof what. He hadn't even peddled papers; and they'd packed him off to collegeto a thoroughly impractical education at sixteen. He remembered vaguediscussions of the typical pseudo-politics with other boys there, somethingabout the United States being able to stay out of all foreign affairs; he'dbeen for it, as he remembered. Tommy hadn't—that's where he'd met Tommy, andthey'd met again over there. Tommy'd enlisted, but he'd been too full of theschool twaddle to free his mind from it at first, and he'd been drafted beforehe could reorient himself. An incomplete major in history, a vague feelingthat he'd sometime write a book on the "Dynamics of History," and schoolpolitics hardly constituted skills. 

His thoughts had been too much in his head for him to notice where he wasgoing or the people around him, but now a vague awareness of something unusualmade him look forward quickly. One of the crowd ahead was staring at him witha sickly, whitish-green cast to his skin that made him stand out like a ghostat a wedding. As the boy watched, the man's knees were trembling visibly, andhe stood, half turned, apparently rooted to the spot. 

Still the soldier's feet moved forward toward the man directly in his path,
and sudden fright seemed to galvanize the frozen expression into a grimace ofthe purest possible fear. 

"Gott, neinl Gott bewahre, so mach' ich nie -\vieder! Hinweg, um GottesWillen! No, back—back! I repent, I surrender, but back! O, du lieber Gott, 


schuldig kenn' ich mich—" German and English spilled out in a quaveringadmission of treachery and deceit, both carrying an accent, as if thegroveling creature had grown up in both and learned neither perfectly. 

The bulging eyes were centered squarely on the boy now, and he began torealize that whatever frightened the man was something about himself, but hisfeet carried him remorselessly forward without direction from his mind. Fearseemed suddenly to pass its ultimate pinnacle, and a convulsive flash ofmovement brought the man to his feet and sent him off in a wild bound,
unmindful that it carried him directly into the arms of an approachingpoliceman. For a moment the officer stepped backward and then, as the meaningof 

the babbled words hit him, he pinned the other firmly and looked over thecrowd that had collected. 

"Anyone see what got into this damned spy here?" 

The boy started backward, but none were looking at him accusingly, as he'dexpected, save for the frozen eyes of the self-confessed German agent, andthey shook their heads, denying any knowledge of the reasons behind thepeculiar actions of the captive. The officer shrugged and turned toward thecall box on the corner. 

"Darned funny. He acts as if he'd seen Old Nick himself. All right, break itup, we'll take care of this guy!" 

The boy looked around again at this dispersing crowd, but no eyes were on him,
and their curiosity was uncentered. Whatever the German had seen wasunrevealed to the rest of them. He went up the street, and there was no moreattention paid to him than before. Why? 

The question went without answer. Ordinarily, he might have put it down tocoincidence and dropped it from his mind, but too many strange things had beenforced upon him at once, and it seemed that there must be some connection. TheGerman had looked at him and seen—what? Whatever it was, it obviously had beenneither pretty nor normal, unless there was some incident between them in theburied years of which he had no memory. And such stark fear seemed hardlycapable of being inspired by anything even as nearly human as he seemed to be. 

Having no answer to the riddle, he dropped it as he struck New York Avenue andturned toward Twelfth, that being the only place in the city with anyassociations in his mind. He hardly expected to find—uh—Anne there, and he wasright in that. But he went in out of the heat and sat down in a booth. "Beer." 

It came out, cold and amber clear, and his eyes lighted faintly. Whether therewas blood in his veins or a heart to pump it, at least the beer slid downsmoothly and its taste was unchanged. He had no* hunger, no faintest desirefor food, which was another abnormality, and the familiarity of the unchangedtaste of the liquid was like the presence of an old friend. Three more pennieswent for a copy of a newspaper, picked at random, and he glanced over theheadlines, mostly without meaning. Some of the stories helped a little toclarify his hazy notion of the world of 1942, though. He was more interestedin the comparatively few appeals to the patriotism of the readers; he chuckledwryly at the idea of giving his blood to the Red Cross. But the general ideawas far from humorous; if his interpreta



tion of the plasma bank was correct, it would have been a godsend twenty-fiveyears before. He'd seen them lying on the stretchers, white and deathly still,
with spilled blood on all sides of them and none available to save them. Now,
it seemed, blood from civilians could keep the life going in men threethousand miles or more away. And he couldn't help, even in that. 

Somehow, he wanted desperately to help. And his inability only made the needto do so the greater in his mind. They weren't blazoning frantic appeals fromthe rooftops this time, but the few small advertisements he saw reached out asthe wildly painted signs had never done. Then, he'd been a boy, untempered anduncertain about such abstractions as the good of patriotism. The draggingmonths in France had cured it, had hardened him into a man, and burned a senseof "responsibility into him. It seemed that a man picked up an obligation to acountry that gave him the right to fight and—well, why not finish thethought?—and die for it. 

But would beer sit well in a dead man's stomach? It didn't matter. He turned 
back through the paper idly, glancing over the sports items, which meantnothing to him, noticing that movie advertisements were still in superlatives,
though there was casual mention of "talkies," which must mean the experimentswith sight and sound had been perfected, and skipping the local stuff. Thecartoon on the editorial page meant no more to him than the sports cartoon,
and he swept over the puerile-sounding editorial, then to the column besideit; there his eyes stuck. 

The arguments were old; variants of them had been used by a few papers in thelast war. Nothing treasonable, of course; the old line of "we agree with you—
only we're more patriotic—but . . . Can we trust our allies? Stab Russia whenyou can before she gets out of hand! Keep the armies at home to defend our ownshores, instead of out there fighting for England, who wouldn't do anythingfor us. The Japs have already got India where they want her, so let's retreatand hold Hawaii!" All the appeals to the festering little fears and hatreds ofa great mass of the people were there, to stir up the readers, increase theirprejudices, make them doubt, and hinder any forthright offensive. He'd beenswayed by those same arguments once, and because of that, and because he'dseen their falsity as he mingled with the men of other nations and saw thegrim facts at the front, his swearing was none too gentle as he read it.
Better the German agent than the man—managing editor, he saw by the masthead—
who'd write such rot in the guise of patriotism while better men were dying 

for it, without time to talk of the love of right or country. Damned slimyskunk!1 

Why, or what he hoped to accomplish, he couldn't have told, but anger swelledup in him as he paid his check and moved out into the street and toward thenearby address he'd noted carefully. He was a little ashamed of his anger, andthen ashamed of his shame; anger on that subject was justifiable, and if itdid no good, it could at least do no harm. 

He found the editorial rooms without trouble, and the girl who Stood guardoutside only looked up once, then went on about her work, raising noobjections as he pushed through the door and into the inner office; such minormiracles no longer caught more than a passing notice from him. 

The editor threw a quick glance up and back to the work he was doing. "Well?
How'd you get in here, and what do you want?" 


Anger was still hot in him as he held out the column. "I'd like to make acomplete fool of myself by pushing your face in. I should do it, because Idon't have the average man's reasons for not doing it, and it's a strongtemptation. Man, do you realize what ideas you're trying to put into yourreaders' minds? Doesn't the responsibility of your job mean anything to you?" 

"It means a great deal, young man." The answer seemed sincere enough,
surprisingly, though it was hard to tell while the other kept his eyes down.
"It means enough that if you and a dozen others who've threatened me were tocome up here regularly to push my face in, as you put it, I'd still do all Icould to keep us from going down the little end of the horn before theultimate threat of communism. We did it before, and—" 

"Bunk! If you mean to tell me you believe in this unmitigated, treasonous rot—
" For a breathing space he paused, and then the words inside him poured out.
He couldn't have told afterward jusj what he'd said, though it had seemedimportant at the time; partly, he knew, it was an appeal to logic, mostly toemotions, but the words came to his lips almost automatically, while theeditor sat quietly, face relaxed after the first flush of anger, slowlyraising his eyes. Finally the words were drained from him completely, andstill the other made no answer. What was the use? He turned back with half a 
ihrug, out of the office and down to the street. 

But he was feeling more cheerful, somehow. The release of his emotions hadbeen better for him than keeping them to himself, at least, and he was noworse off. With new determination, he set off 

toward an agency on E Street; the small notice he'd seen had indicated theymight be able to help him in locating the work he must do. His heart—orwhatever served him—was lighter as he headed down Ninth, whistling faintly. 

Night found him again in front of the restaurant on Twelfth Street. He stoodthere, much as he had been on the bridge in the morning, though the gas maskwas in some trash can and the rucksack had followed it—the little it held was 
useless to him. But where he had merely felt empty and lost on the bridge, hisfeeling now was one of having been emptied—not only emptiness, but theemptiness which follows fullness. 

The cigarette dangled from his lips and finally dropped out. He watched thedoor, seeing the people come in and go out, and could feel himself apart fromthem—a useless, wasted part of the world. The afternoon had taught him thelast meaning of futility. At the agency, they'd been as helpful as they could,
but there was nothing for him; he had no skill beyond soldiering, and that oneskill 'lodged in him useless, though his soul more bent to serve therewith—"
Milton, he remembered; but Milton had his work still to do when he wrote that 
sonnet. 

And afterward, tramping the streets, looking everywhere in the faint hope thathe could at least replace someone who would be of more use, he'd found a manout of his true time has no place. But there was no room for bitterness, oreven for more than the merest stirring of thought. He stood there, watching,
and it was later still when he realized that he'd been hoping to catch aglimpse of Anne. 

Once he started inside, but he had no need of food, and the beer that wouldhave been welcome could only come out of money which he no longer had a rightto use. 


Finally he turned slowly, with a last look down the street, and began movingdown New York Avenue toward no destination in particular. Behind him was thesound of men's feet, the brusque stamping of workmen on their way to theirhomes, and the clicking of high, feminine heels. He heard them allobjectively, as if he could no longer connect them with people, or the peoplewith himself, but only noises coming through a thick gray mist. 

For seconds, one set of foot sounds had been near him, and now it was besidehim. He slowed, without looking around, to let the owner of the feet go on,
but the sounds slowed also, and he finally turned. 

She was smiling, and the first warmth of the evening came into his 

spirits. "About time, soldier," she greeted him. "I had a hunch you mightreturn there, but you were already going away when I spotted you. Were youlook—" 

"Looking for you? Yes. Though I had no right to be." 

"Shh, soldier. If I could look for you, hadn't you the right to do the samefor me?" Her arm went through his possessively, and in spite of himself,
unnamed and painfully wonderful things passed through him; she was scarcelyshorter than he in her high heels, yet she had the art of making him feel talland strong and protective—even when it was she who did the protecting. "Didthe day go so badly with you?" 

He disregarded the last question, choosing to answer the first. "You werelooking for me out of pity—you knew what would happen. And I... well, I waslooking for you to get that pity, I suppose. No man has the right to gohunting for that." 

"You weren't; I know that. You'd never turn to a woman for pity, soldier, butonly because there are times when a man needs to talk to a girl. But I askedhow the day went—and you haven't answered." 

He told her of the recruiting station—though not the reason for the rejection—
his flare-up at the newspaper, and the agency; the other places he mentionedwithout bothering to list. And her eyes were troubled as she listened, butthere was neither scorn nor pity in them, and when he had finished, she madeno immediate comment. For that he was grateful. Sometimes a man needs awoman's silent presence more than any words she can give him. They'd swung offNew York Avenue and up one of the numbered streets while he talked, and nowshe turned him, again, into a lettered street, down a block, and finallystopped. 

"Home." The house was one of the innumerable brownstone buildings scatteredover the city, but better kept than most. She indicated a great curved windowon the first floor. "I've got an apartment there*. It isn't as fancy as livingin an apartment hotel, but it's comfortable, and I can do as I please. Come onup with me and I'll have supper ready shortly." 

With the best of intentions to refuse, he found himself following her up thefew steps and into the place. There, at the door, he stopped, conscious of hisdirty clothing, the heavy, worn shoes, and the appearance he presented ingeneral. He had no business in the room he saw in front of him, with itsgraceful furnishings that managed to suggest comfort and hominess without any 


loss of fineness 

of line or richness of appointment. She smiled quizzically at his expression,
throwing her bag and paper carelessly onto a chair. 

"In with you, Mr. X. I'm not holding this door open another minute." 

And again he was unable to disobey her as she pushed him down onto a sofa,
pulled an apron off a rack, and went out into the little kitchenette to beginsupper. He relaxed back on the seat after the first minute, and watched as shemoved about, soaking in the grace and motions of her body as he might havebasked in sunlight after sleeping in a cold cellar. Apparently the meal wasalmost entirely prepared already; she must have gone out after himdeliberately either on a hunch or a wild chance. He wondered which. 

"Hungry?" she asked as she piled the last dish on the table and indicated'hischair. 

He took it. "Not very. I—" Why go on pretending? She'd earned the truth, or atleast a part of it. "I suspect I don't have any need to eat. I've managed togo all day without anything, and I'm still not hungry. Smells good, though." 

"Then eat it," she ordered. "There's no fun in cooking unless someone else isaround to enjoy it." 

To his surprise, he found that there was still a savor to food, and while hefelt no need of it, the sensation of eating was as enjoyable as ever. Whatwould a ghost do with food? Or what should a living man do without the beat ofhis heart? Neither life nor death would serve as a single answer to theconflicting facts of his existence, just as there was no work for him amongthe living, nor rest among the dead. 

Her voice broke in on his thoughts. "You don't need to breathe, either, doyou, soldier? You forget to whenever you're thinking about something else." 

There was no fear or surprise on her face as he looked up sharply. And as heglanced back at himself, he noticed his breath begin with a little jerk andthen go on smoothly. He pushed the food aside and held out his wrist to her. 

She touched it for a few seconds and nodded slowly; the whitening of her facewas so slight that he sensed rather than saw it, but her voice was stillperfectly calm. "I thought so. I noticed the breathing this morning, butdidn't realize I'd done so until after I'd left you. Do you know 'In FlandersField'? No, of course not." 

Perhaps no war poem has ever come so close to perfection as that one, and sherecited it well: " 'We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's glow; loved and wereloved, and now we lie in Flanders Field. ... If ye 

break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow inFlanders Field. 

But the living had broken no faith here; over there, perhaps. Here they hadtaken up the quarrel with the foe—not the literal foe of men and arms, but thetruer one of hatred and barbaric ideologies— and from what he had seen, nonewho might lie in Flanders Field could begrudge them their holding of thetorch. He, it seemed, was guilty of breaking faith, but that not willingly. 


He shrugged off the overlaid feeling of the poem on his own mood and stood up.
"I can't bother you anymore, Anne. You know as much about me as I do, and youcan see how hopeless I am. Here ... I spent part of it, but here's what'sleft. I got it under false pretenses, and I'll probably never pay the restback, but I have no need for this." 

Her eyes were hurt, and then proud. "You need it more now, and I don't need itat all. Father has a home and money, if I want them; and my own work pays morethan I can use. Call it a debt that my generation owes yours, and let me payit. You'll need a room, unless you want to stay here. No, I meant that,
soldier, but not as it sounds. There's a room here I never use, and I cantrust you. Which will it be?" 

"A room, I guess, if I can find one in this overcrowded city." 

"There's one up the street somewhere; a friend of mine was telling me about itat work today. I've got the address in my other pocket-book, if you'll waithalf a minute." She started back, then stopped at the door. "Darn, I took itout of the bag, now that I remember. No telling where I put it or how longyou'll have to wait now. Why don't you look at the paper while I'm hunting.
Something on page twelve may interest you, I think." 

He picked it up and began to open it, but as she slipped back out of sight, hetossed it aside and did what he knew he must. The rug muffled his footsteps ashe dropped the money on the table and passed to the door, which openedsilently and closed without a creak. Outside and down the street, he heard hervoice raised and a click of heels on the steps, but he was running then withevery ounce of energy in his legs, around a corner, through an alley, and inzigzag fashion until she couldn't possibly trail him. The knowledge that shehad tried to was oddly comforting, though. 

It hadn't been pity, he knew, nor charity, nor any of the other blind andselfish emotions men use to inflate their own egos at the expense of othersless fortunate. None of them would have made her accept and trust him or bearthe knowledge of what sort of a creature 

he was without flinching and drawing away from him. That fact only made it themore necessary that he should leave. 

He was a failure. How much of a failure, he could only guess as his feetcarried him steadily onward through the streets, to Constitution Avenue andbeyond. Lincoln Memorial was before him, but he avoided the statue, and wasback on the bridge, again partially wrapped in a mist from the river that puthalos around the lights. He was to have been a miracle and a symbol, somehow,
and instead he was returning to the place from which he came, useless in aworld where even the average ordinary failures could serve. 

The bridge was more than a quarter of a mile in length, and his feet carriedhim along slowly, but it was behind him at last, and he was following acurving roadway that led up a hill. Just where he was going he did not know.
That morning, beyond the driving need to come out, he had been aware ofnothing. All he knew was that he had come from a place and was going back toit, carried by feet that drew him onward surely if slowly. 

Yet he was reluctant to return. He halted to smoke and try to think, off theroad a ways. In the sky, a premature skyrocket flashed up in zooming arc from 


somewhere in the city, and he ducked with an instinctive desire to hole upfrom anything that whined in the sky above him. Then he lay there, smoking andfeeling; it could hardly be called thinking. And his emotions were a jumble ofdark moods and bluely warm thoughts of the one part of the city that was otherthan an impersonal goal behind him. 

It might have been minutes or hours later when he reached again for a smokeand drew out the last one in the package. But it was time to go on, and therewas no sense in turning back. Above him, bright stars dappled the sky, andbehind him the lights gleamed through the fog that snuggled against the groundand swirled about his feet. Before him, the road led somewhere. 

It ended before his feet stopped and he looked about him to see the outlinesof something that might have been a shrine or an amphitheater. Up there asoldier was pacing up and down in rigid military precision, and as he watched,
another came forward and went through the high ritual of changing guards.
Forward to the end of the stone platform, turn, backward to a stone structure.
That caught his eye then, and he studied the eleven-foot object idly, notingthe simple beauty of the work and the three figures adorning it. But his feetwere moving again, carrying him forward. This was the place, and there was butone thing left to do. 

The force of the grip on his shoulder nearly threw him from his 

feet, and he whirled to see her again beside him, panting hotly, her left fistclenched tightly and her right one still digging into the flesh of his arm. 

"Thank God!" It was more than an exclamation as she whispered it through herteeth. "Didn't you hear me shouting? I called, but you were going on, and Ithought I wouldn't make it... only somehow I did! Soldier, you can't go there!
Wait!" 

He was dull with the wonder of it, and the fierce, hot, foolish hope thatflamed up in him as he gripped her and pulled her around before him. "How'dyou find me, Anne? How could you trail me the way I went?" 

She stopped to catch some of her breath, and she was limp and trembling fromrunning as she held onto him. "I didn't; I knew better than to try. But I knewwhere you were going—the only place you could go. So I came after you. Youshould have waited. It would have been so much easier." 

The flame was dying out of him, and he shook his head. "It's no use. Youshouldn't have come, you know." 

"I don't know, soldier. Do you think I'd have come after you to see you gothere, unless there was some hope I could keep you from it? That's why I tookso long, telephoning, waiting, arguing, and finally driving out here, afraidto find you already gone, but just praying I wouldn't." She was pulling himback now, into one of the shadows, and out of it again, to where a half-hiddenfigure was standing. "Father fixed it for me to see him finally and I forcedhim to come with me." 

The figure was moving toward them now, and the boy could make out four starson the shoulders of the uniform. Anne's father must be somebody, he thought,
to arrange an interview at such an hour; and Anne herself had performed nosmall miracle in bringing a general out here on a crazy mission she couldn'thave explained fully. 


"Well, young man!" There was a bluff heartiness to the generaf s voice thatdidn't entirely cover other emotions. "This young lady tells me you're lookingfor work to help your country again, and she tells it so well I'm out of mybed and out here to see you. If her story hadn't been so completely insane,
I'd have thought she was. I am myself, or I wouldn't be here. Let's have alook at you, over here in the light from my headlights." 

He stared for long minutes, silently, nodding faintly to himself, while theyounger man could feel his flesh crawl with doubt of the outcome. Finally thegeneral turned away, and he could hear Anne's breath catch. 

"Well?" she asked, and for the first time her voice quivered. 

The older man shook himself, and his eyes were on neither of them, butdirected outward toward the horizon. "For some reason, I believe it. Iwondered, riding here, when I was foolish enough to imagine things, what itwould feel like if I found you were correct, Miss Bowman. I told myself I'd beafraid, incredulous, and perhaps half mad. Now I find I'm none of thosethings. If God or whatever other Power rules in this has arranged it as itseems to be, I guess those of us who discover it will be protected by Hiswill. All I can feel is something I've felt when I saw what men can do inbattle. . . . My God, what a magnificent propaganda story; and what a pity nobody'd 
ever believe it. Young man, do you know what that monument is that youwere looking at?" 

He looked back at it. "No, sir." 

"That's the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. He was one of those who fell in 
France without any trace to indicate who he was. He was selected and broughtback here in 1921, and ten years later they erected that in his honor—or,
rather, in honor to all those who fell over there without names that could behonored personally. That monument stands as a symbol of our obligation to themen whose efforts brought us victory before. And you came out of there." Thegeneral stopped then, looking for a response, but there was none, and hecontinued: "You don't owe your nation anything, son; it owes you." 

"So I'm a ghost then." He turned it over in his head, but already it was as ifhe'd received the knowledge long ago. "Or am I the personalization of thethoughts of all the people who've been aware of me—or even a little of each?
I'm apparently physical enough—I seem to weigh as much as I did before. I cando anything a living man can, phantom or not. No, sir, the dead can never haveclaims on the living, except to ask them to carry on. And if I'm returned,
it's because there is something I can do. I want to do it—you've honored me,
or those I represent, long enough; now you're in the same old struggle, andit's my turn to serve again. If you can help me find something, that's all thehonor I—or those others—can ask." 

"But if I made you a soldier in the present army, would it be fair for you totake up arms against the ... the living, if you can carry arms and stillfight? Or if we only see you by some trick of illusion that fools evenyourself, could you help in a purely physical army?" 

He thought it over slowly, silently accepting a smoke from the other; to him,
the cigarette answered the last—if it were illusion, such an illusion mightkill as easily as consume beer or blow smoke from 


its mouth. But could the dead be killed again—if he belonged to the trulydead? And if they could not, then surely he had no right to injure those whocould not harm him. "Sorry, sir. It was good of you to come out here, butsince you've shown me there's nothing I can do—" He began a salute, only tocheck it as his eyes rested again on the guard pacing back and forth up there. 

"Those guards! They're living soldiers, and you could use them in combat.
Then, why can't I do their work—there'd be no need to kill in that? And themen . . . How many? Two-hour shifts on and eight off were usual guard hours,
with the next day free. The six men I replaced could be used far better than Icould as an individual. I have no need of food or sleep or rest; of that I'msure. Why shouldn't I take that on a full-day, full-week shift, sir?" 

"Unthinkable. What's the purpose of having a guard of honor when the dead dotheir own guarding?" 

"Do you think the dead want that guard, sir, when their country needs men?
Isn't it only necessary because civilian morale requires that the customs—mostof them—of peacetime be maintained?" 

"No." The general's voice ended all argument. "No, son, I can't see it. AndI'm not going to look at you while you talk, to make sure you don't convinceme. . . . That wasn't the work you were cut out for; it would have been fareasier to let six who might die of wounds or infection live. And I can thinkof no more futile work than standing guard twenty-four hours a day over a tombthat we have reason to feel may now be empty, however necessary for morale." 

"But, sir—" 

The general smiled, but kept his eyes averted. "No. Ten minutes ago, I'd havedefied any proof that the dead could walk; I came only to humor the whim ofthe daughter of a very close friend and because I felt the ride might do megood. Now, just looking at you, I'm taking it for granted that thatsarcophagus is empty. That's why I wonjt look at you, and why I'm willing tolet Miss Bowman tell you her idea." 

He looked questioningly at the girl, who held out a paper, opened in themiddle. "I wanted to show you that, soldier, but you ran off first. I knew,
after what you'd told me, that it was the answer. But I knew you'd neverlisten to me alone." 

He took it from her, noting it was a later edition of the same paper he'dbought that afternoon, opened to the editorial page where the same cartoon andeditorial struck his eye. But the column between was different, and set inheavy-leaded type. It was titled quite simply, "APOLOGY!" and his eyes caughtthe first words and led him on. 

To the readers of this paper and to a certain energetic young man who brokeinto this office to "push my face in," I want to apologize. I don't know whohe was, nor do I care; I couldn't describe him to you, beyond the fact that heappeared to be a soldier in a rather sloppy uniform. But whoever he was, I'mgrateful to him. 

He told me with complete candor that I was a fool. I agree. I have been afool. I've been writing here for the last months as only a paid mouthpiece ofthe enemy should write, though in my own biased way I thought I was serving mycountry. I wasn't. The ideas could serve no one save the enemy. 


So, after three hours of careful thought, my opinion now is that the decentreaders of this paper should know, and probably do know, that all I've writtenhas been lies—sheer, stupid lies. We're in no danger from England, or Russia,
or any other ally who helps us in this war. We're in danger only from theknaves and fools who fill our minds with defeatism and the filth of which I 
have been as guilty as any. This probably means I'll lose my job, and you'llsee another name here in later editions. 

Why? Because, if you see the truth, you'll know who your real enemies are, andthey don't want that. Because some people would rather cling to their owninterests, would rather watch this nation perish, than give up one iota oftheir stupidity or their profits. 

There have been too many lies to list here; it were better to refer you to theback columns I've written and tell you simply that the men who repeat them areyour enemies. There is no truth in them, only plausibility and cheap emotionaltrickery. But one I must point out while I still can. You've heard us say, "Ifyou do thus and so, can you face the soldiers when they return again?" and itmade a strong emotional appeal for every cheap purpose we were furthering.
Now, I refer you to a well-known poem, of which I quote the last lines only: 

If you fail us who die, we shall not sleep, Though poppies grow in FlandersField. 

You know the source, surely. Well, we—this newspaper and myself—have failedthose dead, and the dead of this war, grievously. For that no apology isenough, but for the little good it may do, I apologize. 

He was silent as he finished it. He'd been so sure he'd failed; he'd saidnothing new, surely, that hadn't been said before. Yet, this was the result. 

"You see?" the general broke in on his thoughts. "However you do it—by youreyes, or some driving force we lack, you walk around in a sort of aura thatmakes others believe pretty much what you want them to. My own present beliefin you, Anne Bowman's faith —don't they suggest a better job than guarding anempty tomb?" 

He nodded slowly, the idea still too new, and Anne picked up. "I'd read thisbefore, and wondered about it; everyone was discussing it, and I couldn't besure at first, but I suspected you. Then when you told me of seeing theeditor, I knew. But you ran off before I could tell you; like a fool, I guess,
I was going to surprise you later instead of telling you at once." 

He looked slowly from one to the other, still only half believing. "You mean—" 

"Nothing else," the general agreed. "You found your own job, because you weremeant for it, apparently, only you were too blinded by desire for directaction to realize it. There are still plenty of people in this world of ourswho are fighting us from within. Some of them do it deliberately—nothing muchyou can do about that, I suppose; but the real trouble comes from the sinceremen who are blinded by prejudices against which none of our arguments orpropaganda can make headway. You'll be a godsend to us, son, if you'll reportto me in the morning. We'll give you some official but meaningless commissionand let you follow your own impulses, unless you want to take suggestions.
Well?" 


It was obvious, of course; it should have been obvious from the time he'dfirst noticed the protection he'd seemed to be under; the willingness of Anneto believe him. Some glamor surrounded him, and he wasn't sure that it workedonly on those who were for the same things he wanted—there'd been the German,
who'd seen him* differently. Maybe, he thought, the general was wrong abouthis being able to do nothing to the deliberately treasonous, judging by that.
He grinned and nodded. 

"In the morning, sir. And—did the writer get fired? Umm. Then, perhaps, sir, Iknow where my first duty will lie." His hand came up in brisk salute, and theofficer returned it before starting toward the car door. 

"In the morning, then, and do as you like. Coming back with me, Miss Bowman?" 

She shook her head. "I think not, thank you. I haven't had a good walk inages, and it'll do me good." 

The lights of the car swung and headed back, leaving them alone in the shadowsnear the Tomb. He stood awkwardly looking at her, and she was laughing softlyat his expression. 

"I guessed, soldier; somehow, it wasn't hard to guess, after I saw a smallfeature story in this afternoon's newspaper about a guard out here who thoughthe saw a ghost come out of the Tomb. The poor fellow's probably in troubleabout it, but that can all be straightened out now. Anyway, the description,
what there was of it, fitted you. That satisfy your curiosity?" 

"No, Anne; that's unimportant. I'm wondering about you. You know what I seemto be—as much as we can know. And yet— Someday, this "war will be over, andwhen that happens, what becomes of me? Do I go back there? Even forgettingthat, how can I fit into the lives of others? Obviously—" 

"Shh. Don't say it." Her hand was on his shoulder again, gently this time.
"You needn't worry about that—it isn't that which I feel for you, soldier.
Once, under other circumstances, perhaps, but now it's only a very deep andgenuine friendship and a desire to help—nothing more." 

"I'm glad, Anne." He meant it. All the things he'd feared she felt wereobviously a part of his former life's possibilities, but none belonged to himnow. They had been gone twenty-five years, and he couldn't even miss them now.
"I'm glad and relieved. I need friends in this strange new world, but. . ." 

"Let's forget it," she advised, settling back onto a rock. "A smoke together,
and then you can walk me home. It's almost dawn already. Wonder how you'lllook in your new uniform?" 

It was dawn when they reached the bridge this time, almost the double of thedawn into which he had come out. But this time, as he walked quietly alongbeside the girl, there was no uncertainty, no shuffle. He had work to do, anda friend to explain the puzzle of his new life to him. 

And, once again, he had his country. Already, as they neared the end of thebridge and the mist began fading, he could see flags flying here and there incelebration of the Fourth, anniversary of the country's birth. Perhaps itwould be more solemn this year than in peacetime, perhaps not, but certainlyto more people its original meaning would be nearer. To the others who did notcare for that meaning, perhaps he was at least a partial answer. He was 


content, as he walked along beside the girl toward his new work, to know that 

whatever might be her future or his own, it was a part of the future ofAmerica; at the moment, he wanted no more. 

Well, at the end of the story she told him they'd just be friends, but . . .
Does a girl give up a comfortable ride to walk beside a boy for miles throughan early morning fog for friendship? Or is something else brewing in heremotions? Let's say I hope the boy got something to make up for all that he'dbeen denied through his earlier service. Justice wouldn't work in real life,
but it's nice to have some of it in fiction. 

Naturally, publishing being what it is, there was no flag on the July Unknown,
and "Poppies" got published in the August issue. 

Meantime, the war was getting into full swing. The girl friend worked for agovernment agency that was soon to be transferred out of Washington to St.
Louis. The big question between us was whether I should go along. Of course,
if I made my living by writing, there was no reason not to go. But I'd beendoing all sorts of other things that I couldn't transfer. 

In the long run, I decided to leave the decision up to chance. Campbell hadsent me a major idea. Suppose, he suggested, an industrial atomic plant of thefuture had a big accident and was in danger of blowing up; and now suppose wesaw it all through the eyes of the plant doctor; then we could get somethingof the same mood and feeling that had made Willy Ley's novelette "Fog" sopopular. 

I liked the idea, though I had no intention of trying to duplicate the totalconfusion and turmoil that Willy Ley had painted in his story of a pettyfuture revolution in a city. I wanted to do a suspense Story, all out and nostrings attached. 

The reason was a study I'd made on the suspense elements in books and movies.
I'd gotten interested in why some suspense stories wort and others fail. Infact, I'd wasted several weeks on the project, and I had some lovely chartsand rules all made out when the idea first reached me. This would be a chance 
to put my theory to practice— and maybe pay for all the time I'd spent for thesheer fun of figuring it out. 

So I did a lot of deliberate work on a plot, and laid it all out in sixcarefully drawn chapter outlines. There was also a tremendous amount ofbackground material I didn't intend to use, but which was necessary to givethe full feeling to the story in my own head. (I think the mark of a goodscience fiction story is that the writer always 

knows ten times as much about it as he is able to use.) It was to run to30,000 words, twice as long as anything else I'd done; but I needed the spacefor full development. 

My biggest trouble was that I couldn't find a title for it. I triedeverything, and nothing seemed to fit. (Titles are important to me. I find ithard to write until I've come up with one that seems to sum up what I have inmind. I also think that a good title has a lot to do with how favorably thereaders will remember a story.) This held me up for weeks, and the time forthe agency to move came and passed. 


In the end, I wound up with something that was only meant to be a workingtitle, but somehow stuck permanently: "Nerves." 

After all the preliminary work, I didn't want to rush through this story, and30,000 words was more than I thought I could do at one stretch. So I decidedto write one chapter, let it sit overnight, and retype it the next day beforegoing on to the next chapter. Each chapter was about 5,000 words long, as longas an average short story. And I think the system was an excellent one. If Ihad had good sense, I'd probably have used it for all subsequent writing.
Certainly it worked well in this case, though I got impatient the fifth dayand did the final two chapters at one sitting. 

One of the chapters involved the use of a big crane and power scoop.
Surprisingly, the local authorities must have decided to give me some help,
because they began digging up the street in front of my room just as I beganwriting the story. When I came to that section, I could look out the windowand see the big machinery chugging away. Very helpful! 

Campbell liked the story well enough to pay a bonus, though he undercountedthe length a bit. (Note to beginning writers. Never use elite type. It saveson postage and looks neat, but editors don't quite trust your word count.
Stick to pica, ten letters to the inch.) 

So the die was cast, and I was going to follow out to St. Louis. I took thetime to visit Campbell again, and then began packing everything I could takeinto a big plywood box. I was leaving the photo equipment behind, with most ofmy hobby material and stuff for odd jobs. In a new city, I'd have to depend onmy writing. I couldn't even join the army if things didn't work out. I alreadytried to enlist and been turned down; even the draft board had rejected me forextreme tachycardia—a pulse that was much faster than normal. 

I probably should have been worried. But all I can remember is getting on thetrain and losing myself contentedly in the latest issue of Astounding. 

Part II 

The Early del Key 

St. Louis was going through a wartime boom already when I got there in May1942, but I had no trouble in finding new living quarters. I took a room in asmall hotel on Lindell Boulevard, a couple of blocks from the rooming housewhere my girl friend had located. It cost the large sum of seven dollars aweek—but it had a shared bath with the adjoining room and a telephone right inthe room. It represented luxury to me then, I guess. I settled in after my boxarrived, finding a place for my typewriters. I still had what I considered afair amount of money, so I rested from my toil of moving, getting to know thelocal drugstore where I'd be eating breakfast and lunch and learning the city. 

During my visit to Campbell before my move, he'd shown me a cover painting bysomeone name Munchausen (sic). It was one of the "astronomicals" Campbellliked to use occasionally, showing a rather crude rocket and several figuresstanding beside a sort of cliff on the Moon, with Earth above and a flaringsun in the sky. He suggested that I might like to do a novelette around thecover, about 20,000 words. There was plenty of time, and he'd send me a 'statof the cover. I'd never tried writing a story around a painting before. Itwasn't usual for Astounding to buy covers first, though it was common practiceon other magazines. But I figured it was an interesting challenge. 


So I waited for the 'stat, idly turning over vague ideas. It was going to betough, I realized. Even then, stories of the first landing on the Moon wereold hat in science fiction. Finding anything new to write wasn't easy. Irejected a lot of things, and was still pondering when a letter arrived fromCampbell. 

Something must have gone badly agley in his plans or my under-' standing,
however. There was no 'stat. Instead, the letter began to the effect that hewas planning to use the cover on the October issue, and time was growing verylate. He hoped it was coming along, because I'd have to have it in his officeby the end of the week or he'd be forced to find another writer for the cover. 

Naturally, this was one of those times when the letter had taken longer thanusual to reach me. He'd mailed it on Monday, but it was already Wednesday—andI probably couldn't expect a manuscript to reach him if I waited until thenext day to mail it. 

Well, I have a pretty good visual memory, though for some reason my storiesrarely show much attention to visual things; I see the background in my mind,
but it never gets on paper. I was pretty sure I could remember how manyfigures were beside the ship. That should be no problem. 

But getting a plot was. The mail had reached me about nine o'clock in themorning. I went out to breakfast with my head turning over every banality everwritten about the Moon. And somehow, under pressure, I got the first trace ofan idea. Was it really the first trip? Or did they just think it was? 

With that, I managed somehow to plot out most of it before I finishedbreakfast, and to begin getting the feel of my major character. The rest ofthe development would have to come as I wrote. (Some writers like to surprisethemselves by beginning with just the beginning of an idea. I hate to startuntil I know every detail. But in a few cases, I've found that I can work theother way, though the results are rarely as good.) 

So I came back to my room, picked up the Oliver, shoved paper into it, andbegan writing. I never got up until the last of those 20,-ooo words was down.
Then I grabbed a hasty bite to eat and rushed back to switch typewriters andbegin retyping it all. 

I took the finished manuscript down to the main post office and put it in themail at ten o'clock that night. It included a short note not quite saying, butstrongly indicating, that fortunately only a little work had remained tocomplete it. And I came back and quietly collapsed. 

I don't think Campbell was fooled by my note. He bought the story, but therewas no bonus. But knowing what I do now about smart editors (and he was one ofthe smartest) I suspect that I could have taken more time and done a somewhatbetter job. He'd almost certainly protected himself from my tendency to doeverything at the last possible moment, and I could just as well have mailedit on Saturday to reach him Monday. 

Sometimes I think no writer should learn anything about editing or publishing.
There seems to be a sort of inherent contest between writers and editors, inwhich each tries to fool the other. It works very well, too, until the writerbecomes sophisticated enough to fool himself. 


Anyhow, that was my first lesson in writing under extreme pressure, and ithelped me later on many occasions. I no longer would fear a rush assignment,
and for that I owe a great deal to "Lunar Landing." 

13. Lunar Landing 
(by Lester del Rey) I 

Grey's body was covered with a cold sweat that trickled down from his armpitsand collected in little round drops over his body, and he stirred in his bag,
crying faintly. The sound of his own voice must have wakened him, for he cameout of his dream of falling endlessly, to a growing consciousness. The fallingsensation still persisted, and he made an unconscious frantic gesture towardsomething to stay his fall; then his hands met the loose webbing of the bag,
and he grimaced. 

Even without the feel of the webbing, the reaction of his motions should havetold him where he was, as his body shot back against the opposite surface ofthe sack; this was space, where gravity had been left far behind, except forthe faint fingers of it that were now creeping up from the Moon and pullinghim slowly back to the top of the bag. For a few seconds he lay there,
grinning slightly at the thought of the stories he'd read in which lack ofgravity had set the heart to pounding wildly, or the stomach to retching.
Space wasn't like that, he knew now, and should have known before. It wassimply like the first few moments of free fall, before the parachute opened;*
sort of a peaceful feeling, once you realized fully there was no danger to it.
And the heart was freed from some of the effort needed, and adjusted to acalm, easy pumping, while the stomach took it all in stride. It hadn't beenabsence of gravity, but the shifting of it that made seasickness. 

Of course, his ears felt odd—there had been a dizziness that increased slowlyas the liquids inside were freed from the downward pull, but the hours in theacclimating chamber had done their work, and it soon passed. Mostly it was amatter of mental adjustment that overcame the old feeling that somewhere hadto be down, 

and recognized that all six walls were the same. After that, space was anentirely pleasant sort of thing. 

With loose easiness of motion necessary here, he reached up and unfastened thezipper above him, then wriggled out of his sleeping sack and pulled himselfdown to the floor by means of the ropes that were laced along the walls forhandholds. The room was small and cramped, heavy with the smell of the humanbodies that hung now in other sacks along the sides, and loud with the snoresof Wolff and the hiss of the air-conditioning machines. 

"Is that you, Grey?" One of the bags opened, and Alice Benson stuck her headout, smiling calmly at him. 

Somehow, looking at her, he could never feel the impatience he should; she wastoo old and fragile to be making such a trip, especially since there seemedneither rhyme nor reason to her presence, and yet the utter normality of herconduct under the conditions was strangely soothing. In the cramped, stinkinglittle cabin of the Lunar Moth, she was still possessed of a mellowedgentility of bearing that concealed the air of urgency he'd sometimessuspected. 


"Yes, ma'am." Unconsciously, the few manners he'd learned leaped to thesurface around her. "Why aren't you asleep?" 

She shook her head slowly, the faintest of grimaces showing in the corners ofher mouth. "I couldn't, lad. I've been living too many years with somethingunder me to adjust as well as you youngsters do. But it has its compensations;
I've never rested so well, whether I sleep or not. Would you like somecoffee?" 

He nodded, pulling himself carefully along the ropes that made handholds whileshe removed a thermos bottle from a locker and replaced the cork with anotherthat had two straws inserted through it. Above her, Wolff went on snoring in aparticularly horrible gargling manner, and she glanced up distastefully at hissack but made no mention of it. Grey took the coffee gratefully, drinkingslowly through one straw; cups would have been worse than useless here, sinceliquids refused to pour, but chose to coalesce into rounded blobs, held inshape by surface tension. 

"Ralston's already gone out to the engines," she answered his glance at theempty sack. "And June's still in the cockpit. The rest are asleep; I put asedative in their broth, so they wouldn't be awakened during the landing. I'lltake a mild one myself after you start reversing, so you needn't worry aboutus here." 

Grey finished the coffee and handed the bottle back to her, smiling histhanks, then turned down the narrow little shaft that led to the control pit.
A pull on the ropes sent him skimming down the shaft, 

guided by a hand on the walls, before he checked his momentum at the bottomand squeezed open the little door. Inside, he could see June Correy hunchedover the observation window, staring down through the small telescope, makingnotes in a little book, but he slid in silently without disturbing her andsettled himself into the padded control seat, pulling out a cigarette. 

She glanced up nervously as the first odor of the smoke reached her, and for abrief moment there was more than mere contempt in her eyes. They were niceeyes, too, or could have been if she'd wanted them to be; he'd seen warmth andcourage in them when the grading takeoff had unsettled the others. But forhim, there was only a look that reminded him pointedly of his eighty poundsand four-feet-ten height. He grinned at her, raking over her own slender fivefeet and up to the hair with a hint of auburn in it, mentally conceding herbeauty while knowing that she was aware of it, and chose to make the fullestuse of it to gain her ends. The fact that he was outwardly immune to hercharms added nothing to her liking for him. 

Now she turned back with a shrug to the observation window, carefully notnoticing the smoke that drifted toward her, though the corners of her nosetwitched faintly. She'd been used to a full pack a day, and the five rationedout to them here had probably been smoked within as many hours. 

"Smoke, Carrots?" 

"I don't chisel, Pipsqueak!" But her eyes turned involuntarily toward thewhite cylinder he held out. 

He tossed it to her. "Landing rations, special to the head pilot. I got awhole pack bonus for the landing, to steady my nerves, if I had any. 


Technically, you don't rate, but my chivalry won't stand a suffering female.
Take it and stop whining." 

"Chivalry!" She grunted eloquently, but the cigarette was already glowing, andshe settled back, some of the hostility gone from her eyes. "You never foundthe meaning of the word." 

"Maybe not. I never had anything to do with women under sixty before, so Iwouldn't know. . . . 'S the truth, don't bug your eyes at me. As long as I canremember, at least, I've been poison to girls, which suits me all right. . . .
Nervous?" 

"A little." She stared down again through the scope. "The Earth doesn't lookso friendly down there from this distance. And I can't help remembering thatSwanson must have cracked up. Wonder if he's still alive?" 

Grey shook his head. This was both an exploring expedition and a rescue partyfor Swanson and his two men, if any jemained alive; 

but they'd set off the double magnesium-oxygen flare indicating a crack-upalmost eighty days before, and their provisions had been good for a monthonly. "If none of their supplies were injured, perhaps. You can go through alot of hell if you have to; probably depends on how much faith they had in arescue whether or not they tried to make out till we reached them. ... I'mgoing to reverse now. Staying here?" 

She nodded, and he reached for the tinny little phone that connected him tothe engine hold. "Ralston? Get set, because time's due for a turn. Gyrosready? And power? Okay, strap in." He was already fastening himself down withwebbing straps, while Correy came over beside him and began doing likewise. Afinal glance at the chronometer, and he reached out for the gyro clutches,
throwing them in. 

Slowly, the Moth heeled, dipping her tail reluctantly, and through the smallobservation window before him, sighted out along the side of the great rockettubes, the small ball that was Earth slithered away and out of sight. Theseconds ticked by slowly as the tiny gyros reacted, one thousand turns or moreto make one half turn for the Moth, since they were in a ratio of a pound perton of ship. In space, there was no need for any sudden maneuvering, but thesaving of weight was immensely important, even with atomic fuel supplying theenergy that activated the tube. Then the rough face of Luna began to peek inat the edge of the window, and Grey snapped off all lights in the cockpit,
sighting through the now glaring screen of the telescope. He reached for thegyro controls again, edging the great ship slowly about until the mark he hadselected was squarely in the crosshairs of the screen. Satisfied, he cut outthe clutches. 

"Nice work, Half-Pint!" She said it with a grudging tone, but he knew it wasjustified, and accepted the words at face value. "For delicate work, you'renot bad!" 

"Mn>hm. Suppose you get on the radio there and call Earth; once I cut in theblast, you won't have a chance, with the field out there fighting your signal.
Know what you want to say?" 

"After working for the news syndicate five long years? Don't be silly. Howlong can I take?" "Ten minutes about." 


"Mmm. Got any messages to send yourself? Friends, relatives? I'll bug out afew words for you if you like—square the cigarette." She was already pushingthe key of the bug back and forth, throwing full power through the bank oftubes and out across space on the ultra


short waves that would cut down through the Heaviside on a reasonably tightbeam. 

"No friends, no relatives, no messages. I had a dog once, but he died, sowe'll forget him, too." Grey was estimating speeds and distances from the fewinstruments and the rough guide of the image of the Moon, knowing that thecalculations made back on Earth would be far more accurate than anything hecould arrive at, but still feeling the need of checking for his ownsatisfaction. 

She glanced up from the bug, a glint of curiosity showing. "You're a queerduck, Grey, but I didn't figure you were a misanthrope." 

"Not. People just don't think the same way I do, or something; maybe becausenobody wrote anything on my blank pages except what I scribbled myself." Hethrust up a hand into the steel-gray hair that bushed up on his head, sweepingit back from cold gray eyes, grinning at the mental picture of himself. Eventhat didn't fit in with normality, since healthy human skin shouldn't betanned to a dark brown that somehow had gray undertones, making him a completemonotone in harmony with the name he'd chosen for himself. "Don't go askingpersonal questions, Carrots, because I can't answer 'em any better than youcould for me. I'm an amnesiac, had a seventy-year-old psychologist for amother, an encyclopedia for a father, and the hell of making a living for aschool." 

He could see nothing of her face, but her voice held none of the expected pityor maudlin slop he'd come to expect when the facts were spilled. "Then how'dyou ever decide on this?" 

"Dunno even that. Hunch, or something. Finished? Good, then shut up while Istart this thing gentling down. Luna doesn't look pretty down there, but Ireckon we'll find a level place somewhere to slap down on our tripod. Ralston,
here we go. Keep 'em smooth!" 

Grey's long, sensitive fingers went out to the vernier and studs that coveredthe action of the single tube, cutting in the circuits, letting it warm up,
then throwing in the high potential needed to start it before normal actioncould proceed. A small red button on the panel clicked on, and he droppedback, feeding in power slowly, while the edge of the window nearest the tubetook on a faint blue glow, and a slight haze showed up near it. The bluestreak of inferno that was the rocket blast was blazing out behind—or ahead,
really, since the so-called bottom of the ship was always directed toward thedestination when decelerating power was on. Rockets at each end, or strungalong the sides, would have made the weight unmanageable. The 

gravitometer needle flickered upward, quarter-gravity deceleration, half, thena full gravity pounding out behind them. 

The feeling of weight came back over him, setting his stomach into a belatedsickness that he was totally unprepared for, but it was only momentary, andthe action of his heart surged up, then settled back into the routine business 


of fighting to equalize pressure and circulation in spite of the downwardpull. He flopped the cigarette package in front of Correy, and she lighted onefor him and another for herself; words would have been wasted while thegreater roar behind from the tube filtered in, drumming against their ears.
Maybe a theoretical rocket should be soundless, but this one certainly wasn't.
From now on until the actual landing began, it was simply a matter of sittingquietly and waiting for the blind rush of the ship to slow down and thedistance to diminish, with only a cursory attention from him. He settled back,
smoking and thinking idly, stirred again into unemotional memories by Correy'searlier words. 

No child grown to manhood could remember its earliest infancy, apparently; buta newborn mind in an adult body might still soak up and remember impressionsfor which it had no name; the eyes still carried their training at separatingobjects, the ears knew still how to sort and classify sounds, meaninglessthough they were. And now, even as if it were but a moment before, he couldremember waking there on the strange green meadow and stirring withoutpurpose, called by the unrecognized pangs of hunger. Under him, his legs hadstirred, but he'd forgotten how to walk, and had resorted to creeping toward astream that flowed nearby, the call of thirst stronger than blank memories.
The farmer had found him there, half drowning from his clumsiness, and by thetime he'd been half carried to the farmhouse, his legs were again learning thedifficult work of supporting him, though they had felt weak and shaky. 

The doctor had turned him over to a psychiatrist. And then, days later, wordsbegan to take on meanings, and the first sentences became again familiar tohim. Oh, he'd learned rapidly—some faint neural paths were still left, easingthe job of learning. He'd heard that it was amnesia—not partial, but complete,
wiping out all memories with an utter finality; and during the year thatfollowed, he'd stored into his unfilled mind all the information from thelibraries at hand, and all the odd relations of mankind he could glean. He'dbeen forced to think in his own way, almost without relation to those abouthim, and with its own peculiar advantages. But there could be no friendshipsin that frantic chase after knowledge. He'd never 

realized, until the psychiatrist died, that he was an object of charity,
though he found shortly after that living was done by the sweat of a man'sbrow. 

Well, it hadn't been too hard, all things considered. He'd been analyzedbefore and told that he had an ability for mechanics, so the job in theairplane factory had followed almost automatically. The other men had staredat his strange little figure, and had laughed in well-meant kidding thatturned slowly to sullen dislike at his lack of response to what he could notunderstand; but the work had gone well. Then, the call to run these ships hebuilt had grown in him, and the flying school that followed had grudginglygranted his ability. Learning, to him, was the only known pleasure, and he'dtackled all new things with a set purposefulness that brooked no obstacles. 

Three years of flying the great ships had won him a certain half-respect, andeven an outward familiarity with the other pilots, as well as a reputation forcourage which he felt unjustified; it wasn't recklessness, but a lack of anyfeeling that he had anything to lose. Life was oddly unvaluable, though hereacted automatically to the old law of self-preservation when faced withtrouble. 

He'd been flying two years when the first news of Swanson's rocket appeared in 


the papers. There, he'd thought, was something worth trying, and for the firsttime he'd felt the common stirrings of envy; Swanson had been a name toconjure with among flying men, and his selection as pilot by the mysteriouscompany building the rocket had been entirely fair, yet Grey had been almostjealous of the man. There was magic in the idea of sailing out beyond theEarth toward the Moon that stirred odd feelings in him, unfelt except in thefantastic dreams he sometimes had. 

And then, when Swanson had set off the two flares to indicate a crack-up,
there'd been announcements of a second ship on the way, which would be used ina gallant, although almost hopeless, attempt to rescue the three men in thefirst one. But this time, they had no handpicked candidate for pilot, and ithad been conducted on a severely practical series of competitive tests amongthe pilots flying commercially or privately who volunteered. In the long run,
it was his size and weight, along with the smaller amount of air and food heneeded, that had turned the scales in his favor; others were as good pilots,
as quick in their reactions, and as clever at learning the new routine. Butnone had been as economical to ship, and the small balance had gone in hisfavor, just as the same factor had helped all of the rest of the crew'sselection, with the exception of Bruce Ken


nedy, designer of the Moth. He stood almost six feet tall, but of the others,
June Correy was the tallest with her exact five feet of height; and even amongthem, Grey was the smallest. 

Not that it bothered him; he was apparently lacking in the normal human self-
consciousness about such things, and for the weeks that followed, the grind ofpreparing himself as best he could for the task ahead was to give him no timefor thoughts. Swanson and two men were up there on the Moon, short of food andwater and the all-important air needed for life, while the mysterious sponsorof the ships operated through its trust company with a frenzied drive thatcould rush the Moth through in too long a time at best, but had to hope thatthe men would somehow survive. 

It had impressed Grey at the time, the struggle to save those three men who'-dalready managed to accrue more glory than a normal lifetime could give them.
He'd felt more hopeful for this strange mass of humanity. But to him, theimportant factor was that the Moth must get through, since there could be nomore—that had been made clear to them; ships cost fortunes, and not all peoplewere willing to spend the money needed. Now, here he was, and under hisfingers lay perhaps the future of all space travel; certainly the life of thequeer crew with him. Below him, the hungry pits and craters of the satelliteseemed to reach out jagged teeth to swallow this presumptuous bug thatinsisted on daring what men had never been created to try. 

"Strange," Grey muttered, leaning forward beyond the screen to stare directlyat the black and white selenography under him. "Logically that stuff downthere should be queer to me, but it isn't. Not half as strange as old Earthlooked the first time I really saw her. I... Huh?" 

Correy was clutching his shoulder, gripping at him and trying to attract hisattention. The ship's combination radioman, reporter, and assistant pilot wasindicating the headset, and he grunted, adjusting the ill-fitting thingreluctantly; there was a lot of equipment on the Moth that indicated both thefrantic last-minute rush and the depletion of funds, though the importantthings were well enough done. 


Her voice came driving in through the phones, now that some of the thunder ofthe tube was muffled out. "Wake up from your dreams, Squirt! Listen to thattube! Hard, it isn't obvious; I'm not sure I hear anything, but I think I do,
and don't like it!" 

He yanked back one earpiece and listened, screwed up into a small bundle ofconcentration, but at first there was nothing wrong. The 

thunder came rushing in like an overgrown bee against a microphone, atumultuous Sh-sh-sh, gradually resolving into something faintly but distinctlydifferent, a slightly changing Sh-sh-zh-zh-sh-sh-zh-zh, almost unnoticeable.
The change had no business there. And even as he strained to catch it, itseemed to become more pronounced. 

"Damn! I do hear it, Correy! How long's it been going on?" 

"I don't know—I only just noticed it, but that was because I was listeningdeliberately, trying to find some nice description to write up if we ever getback. What is it?" 

"Dunno, but I've got suspicions. Ralston! Hey, Ralson, cut in! Notice anythingfunny about the tube sound?" 

There was a long pause from the engineer, then a grunt came over the phones,
which might have indicated anything. Grey called again, but got no answer, andhis skin began to feel tight with the one sensation he could clearly recognizeas an emotional response to danger. Correy started to get up from the straps,
obviously intending to go in person after little Ralston, but he shook hishead, and something about him made her sink back quietly. Finally, a faintnoise came over, followed by the boy's excited voice, its normal bitternesswashed out. 

"Yeah, Grey, something's damned funny. I've checked over everything here, andit isn't in my province. Nothing I can do about it. Motors are feedingperfectly, voltage and amperage aren't off a hair, ionizer's perfect, and thewhole hookup's about as good as anything can be. Any ideas, or you want mine?" 

"I've got 'em, but I'm hoping I'm crazy. That tube's control field tested outone hundred percent, didn't it?" 

The boy's voice caught faintly. "So you've been thinking the same! Yeah, ittested okay, and Kennedy told me it was theoretically perfect, but— Grey, doyou think that's why Swanson crashed?" 

He hadn't thought of it, but it was an idea. "Mmm, could be. But look, how canwe check on it?" 

"We can't. If it gets worse in geometrical progression, then we're right, andions are eating through, in spite of the field, working on their own controls,
and the more damage they do, the faster it goes. Of course, if you can shutoff the rocket, give it time to cool off where there's almost no convection,
and let me get out into the tube in a suit, maybe I can fix it; maybe not. Idoubt it." 

"No use trying. Luna's too close, and we'd hit before you could get inside.
Think we could ease up a little? Umm, no. Won't work, same amount of damage inthe long run, and we'd have to take a course to 


make an orbit; that'd give us a longer trip and probably do more harm thangood. At this rate, how long should it last?" 

"Your guess is as good as mine, Grey, but I'd say about an hour and a half." 

June cut in, her voice somewhat relieved. "Then we won't have to worry untilwe land! We'll be down in half an hour more!" 

"At this rate, I said," Grey reminded her brusquely. "If this keeps up, we'llbegin to lose efficiency, and fast! Then we'll have to cut in more juice, moredamage, more juice, and so on. Right, Ralston?" 

"Right. It'll be nip and tuck, though I think you've got leeway. Swanson madeit, even if he crashed, and our tube figured against weight and things with aminutely higher safety factor than he had, so we should be good for a littlebetter luck, if that's what failed him. Look, June, you still there? . . . Mm,
well, if you can . . . The others—" 

Grey chuckled a little, amused at the odd quirks of human thought that couldbe embarrassed about its other twists, even now, and answered for her.
"They'll be all asleep, unless Mrs. Benson's still awake. No use waking themup to worry; nothing they could do. And if you're thinking about Helen Neff,
the doctor was snoring a nice soprano when I left. She's as safe as she canbe. Go back to your engines and let me worry about the others." 

He cut Ralston off, still grinning, and looked across at Correy's frowningface. "Heart's on his sleeve, eh, Carrots? Sometimes I can guess why you womendon't like little men—they're too darned intense and obvious. She knows she'sgot him, so she chases big Brace Kennedy." 

"You're no giant yourself, Pipsqueak," she reminded him absently. "And sincewhen did you take over command of the ship?" 

"But I don't feel like a little man—I don't bother thinking one way or theother. That's the difference. As to the command, I took that over when we tookoff, by my own consent; nobody thought to figure out that somebody had to beboss here, so I'm it. If you've any objections, let's have them, and then I'llforget them." 

"You get us down, and I'll argue about it later. Listen, it's worse already." 

For a moment, Grey put it down to imagination, but then he realized she wasright; it was an obvious whishing now that had no business there, andsteadier. He grunted, feeding in slightly more power, and watched while thegravitometer settled back where it should be. The moonscape on the screen wasstill too far away to suit him— 

though it might soon be too close. Be a pity if anything happened to the Moth,
with all the hopes and dreams that must be in her. Alice Benson's gently fadedface with its hidden purpose flashed through his mind, then the perversewarmth he'd seen in June Correy's face, but they were less than the ship tohim. 

He looked again at the screen, then back to the girl. "I'll get us downsomehow, June: I give my word on that, if I have to climb out in the tube andswear against gravity." 


"Somehow . . . somehow I can picture that right now." She nodded slowly, apuzzled mixture of worry and surprise on her face. "Nemo Grey, I neverbelieved those stories about your rescue of the group in Canada, but I do now.
Don't you know what fear is?" 

He shook his head slowly. "Not exactly, I guess. But watch it, Carrots, you'regetting soft. You'll be clinging to my shoulder in a minute, just anotherwoman trusting in a man. Scared?" 

"Yes. That sound out there, getting worse. And then when I look at the screen—
Could I have another smoke, Grey?" She took it, sucking in eagerly on it,
suffering from too good an imagination, he guessed. But her sudden about-facesurprised him, and aroused a ghost of another emotion he couldn't place. Womenwere a strange species to him, and his little knowledge of them came mostlyfrom books. "You know, right now I am just another woman, I guess, and thatscrawny shoulder of yours may look pretty good to me, before we land. You seemso damned sure of yourself and so unruffled." 

"Cling if you want; I won't hold it against you after we land. But right now,
I'd rather you used that telescope and tried to hunt out the wreck ofSwanson's ship, if you can spot it. Reports of the flare indicate it's aboutthere, I think." He pointed to a dot on the screen, now showing a greatlyenlarged version of the Moon's face, or part of it. 

She seized on the chance, and more confidence came back to her with somethingto occupy her mind besides the mental picture of a crash. Grey had his handsfull, trying to keep the indicator where it should be, against the slowlytapering-off thrust of the rocket. And they were close enough now that anotherfactor began to enter, one on which he'd counted, but for which no amount of"tank" work could fully prepare him. The ship was top-heavy, its center ofgravity located a good many feet above the center of thrust, and the feeblegravity of the Moon was beginning to act on that; the top showed an alarmingtendency to swing over toward the Moon, away from the straight line of fall. 

No rocket impulse could be exactly centered or exactly balanced on both sidesat all times, and the faintest off-center effect was enough to start a list.
He swore, watching the slight movement of the window over the moonscape,
working the gyro clutches to correct it and bring them back to dead center. Aslong as the tilt was only a slight one, the gyros could do it, but the momenthe let it get beyond a degree or two, they'd be too feeble to do the work, andhis only chance would be to cut the rocket and let them work without thethrust; that had happened on the takeoff, but there'd been time. Now, with thecloseness of the Moon and the deterioration of the tube, he'd have no chanceto try it successfully. 

Again the tube sound was worse, and there was a rise in temperature inside theroom, coming from the rocket side that formed one wall; that meantconsiderable loss of efficiency. Grey dropped his hand from the gyro clutch,
stepped up the power, and jerked it back, just as the tilt decided to takeadvantage of the one uncontrolled moment. But he was in time, by a slightmargin. Correy's face had jerked from the scope and tightened as she took itin, but she nodded, caught herself, and went back to searching. 

His estimate indicated their fall was faster than safe, and he snapped his eyefrom the window to the gravitometer, setting the thrust up to a tenth over onegravity, as corrected against lunar drag by the radio indicator that was now 


working, giving altitude by signal echo time. Again he had to jerk back to thegyro controls. And the rocket was behaving abominably now, wasting a largepart of its energy in fighting itself, while the temperature continued torise. 

June motioned suddenly, switching the scope back to the screen at fullamplification, pointing to a tiny spot that gleamed more brightly than therough ground around it. It was located in the oddly shaped crater to which hewas headed, and a careful inspection seemed to show the shape of a brokenrocket. "Must be, don't you think, Grey?" 

"Must be. Wrong side of the crater, of course. Damn! Leave the scope on andmake sure all your straps are tight. We may hit hard. Mmm. Men should havethree arms. Yeah, that's it, all right. I caught a gleam of metal that's beenpolished then." He bent forward, catching the toggle switch in his teeth.
"Ralston, get set. Landing in ten minutes. Tube's raising hades, but I thinkit'll last." 

"Okay, Grey." The boy was scared, but determined not to show it. "I'll keep myhand on the main motor switch, try to cut it off as we hit, so that won't getout of control. Luck!" 

"Luck, Phil!" The use of the first name was deliberate, since he seldom usedone, but it should sound familiar. He released the toggle again with histeeth, his eyes screwed to close focus on the indicators, then slid back.
Slowly, cautiously, he let the ship slip over two degrees toward the directionof the wreck, and the ground in the window slid sluggishly aside as it drewnearer. But he couldn't keep it up; too much risk of the tilt getting out ofhand. He straightened again, and moved the switch over almost full way; nownearly the last amount of available power was coming from the rocket. Suddenlythe tendency to list stopped, and a whine growled out from somewhere in thecenter of the ship. 

"God bless Ralston!" Grey realized what had happened; during the trip, the boyhad been piecing out extra gyros, crude and unsafe, from anything he could layhis hands on, knowing that the regular ones had been almost inadequate for thetakeoff. Probably they'd burn out his rough bearings, blow up from centrifugalforce, or overload their motors in a few minutes, but for the moment they'dwork, and it would be long enough. "That's real courage for you, Carrots! Thekid's scared sick, but he still bucks it through in time. Well, she's steady,
she's pointing to the best spot I can locate, so all I have to fool with isthe power control, and I think it'll last. . . . Hey!" 

The glance he'd shot at her had spotted her white knuckles and clenched teeth,
her eyes set on the screen that showed ground rushing up at them, growing likethe face of a monster in the stereoscopic movies, seeming to swallow them up.
On an impulse that he recognized as probably normal hut still surprising, hereached around her shoulders with his free hand, pulling her over against him,
and turning her face from the sight. "Hey, it isn't that bad, Carrots. I saidwe'd get through, didn't I?" 

She nodded, burying her face against him, and her voice was almost too faintto hear. "I'm scared, Grey! I'm scared!" Her arms came around him then,
pulling hard at him for the purely animal comfort his solidity could give, andhe recognized it as something not related to him personally, but there was anodd pleasure in it, all the same. 


He kept his voice level, one hand on the control lever, trying to match theerratic thrust against the gravity, the other patting her shoulder. "Easy,
June. It's all right!" But he knew it wasn't. An irregular fading blast wascomplicating his calculations until a smooth landing would be impossible. Thenthe ion stream struck the ground below, and the screen became a blue glare. Ona guess, he set power to counteract their motion. 

For a seemingly endless quarter of a minute or less, he held it there, thenjerked his hand away and struck the cut-off switch savagely, just as somethingcaught the tripod landing gear, and his stomach seemed to drop through theseat. 

"Landed!" The word leaped through his head as a lance of pain struck and endedin blackness. 

H 

Grey stirred mentally, his hand groping up to the painful lump on hisforehead, and his mind was straining for something that he couldn't reach. Theperversely calm part recognized the impulse and the frustration of it, though.
Whenever any shock hit him, he unconsciously expected the amnesia to lift, asit did in the books; but it never happened that way, though it wasn't thefirst time he'd gone through a mental blackout. A hand brushed the thick hairoff his face, and he looked up into the troubled eyes of June Correy. 

"Hi, Carrots, you got through?" 

"We all did." She'd jerked her hand back, and now something like embarrassmentpassed over her face. "It wasn't a bad landing, Grey; but the combination ofme hanging onto you and your own loose strapping threw you against the controlpanel. Sorry I got so soft." 

"Skip it!" He wasn't sorry. 

Alice Benson's frail hands were adjusting a cold compress on the lump thatached, and he looked around then to find himself in the main room of the shipwhere most of the others were making preparations of some sort. She pouredsomething onto a cut that stung sharply, smiling at him. "It was a very finelanding, lad; we hardly felt it through the springs holding our sacks—justenough to waken the others. Feel better?" 

"Fine, thanks." His eyes located the bitter little Philip Ralston, and heturned to him. "Did you tell the others?" 

"Left it to you." The kid's blue eyes flicked away from Helen Neff, then backagain, while his hands went on pulling out the spacesuits. "Go ahead and tellthem, Grey." 

Grey pushed aside the hands of Mrs. Benson, and pulled himself to his feetagainst the light gravity, surveying the others as they turned to face him,
watching their various reactions. "Okay, then, here it is in a nutshell. We'rehere, and we spotted the other spaceship quite a ways off. But right now, Iwouldn't risk a ten-foot hop with that tube—it's shot! You might look it over,
Kennedy, but I don't think there's much we can do unless there's enough leftof 

Swanson's tube to put the two together and make one good one." 


"Shot?" Kennedy scowled, his heavy sullen face looking more aggressive thanusual. "Look, Grey, that tube was right—it tested for double the time we took.
What'd you do—forget to warm it up? If you ruined it, I'll—" 

"Yeah?" Ralston jumped up facing the bigger man, a little blond bantam defyinga brunet giant. "You got two to clean up then, Kennedy. Grey did a damned goodjob and it wasn't his fault your theories couldn't take the actual work." 

Grey put a hand to the boy's shoulder, pushing him back gently. "It's okay,
Phil, forget it. Kennedy, you know darned well you can't say that tank testsare the same as actual workouts; anyhow, Swan-son cracked up, probably thesame way. But we can't stop to fight about it now. We've got to get out there,
locate the other ship, and find out whether we can work it up from the twotubes. Otherwise-well, there won't be any otherwise. Now get out and into thattube; find out what happened, and how we can fix it. The rest of you get intospace togs so we can start outside. Orders! I'm taking command." 

"By whose consent?" The ship's designer stood rooted, unmoving, his eyeschallenging the pilot, and something unpleasant on his face. 

Grey grinned, turning toward the others. Correy made a face at him, along withan overly humble bow, but she nodded and stepped to his right, just asRalston's quick steps carried him to the left. With a little smile, almost ofamusement, Mrs. Benson joined them, leaving Neff and Wolff on Kennedy's side. 

Ralston jerked his head savagely. "Come over here, Helen, or I'll drag youback with us!" 

The sharp-featured doctor opened her enormous eyes in hurt surprise, her handgoing to her thin hair. Grey never had seen what at-bacted the boy to her. Shestared at the big man slowly, found him not looking at her, and back toRalston. Then, like a spoiled child being forced to its duty, she obeyed. Thekid should try those tactics more often, maybe. 

Wolff was a dwarf. Now he bobbed his immense head, shrugged his shoulders,
which seemed hunchbacked, and ran his tongue over his thin lips. "I... ah ...
of course I side with the others, Mr. Grey. I... I'll obey orders, to theletter. But. . . umm ... I'd rather not go out, if—" 

"You'll come. It'll take six of us to carry back the three men out 

there, if they're still alive. We'll get them first, make a second trip forthe tube parts needed. Well, Kennedy?" 

Kennedy shrugged, his face expressionless, picked up the suit, and beganclimbing in. Satisfied, Grey reached for his own suit, wondering about AliceBenson. But she was in her cumbersome outfit before any of them, her voicecheerful over the phones as she offered to help Neff. It might have been apleasant little picnic from her reactions, though there was a suppressedeagerness to her voice that he could not explain. He donned his own outfit,
turning to Correy. 

"Carrots, what about the radio?" 

"Still working—or was when I sent back a report; but two tubes were weakenedand they blew out when I switched over for the acknowledgment—the big special 


ones for which we only stocked one spare. So that's out now, not that it'd dous much good. . . . You know, you look almost like a man in a suit, Half-
Pint." 

He grinned. "So do you, Redhead, so don't count on feminine wiles out there.
Okay, let's go. This is serious business, so no foolishness from anyone.
Swanson, Englewood, and Marsden may be dying any minute in their ship; andwe're looking out for our own lives, too. Take it easy, remember you'redealing with only a sixth-normal gravity here, don't turn on too much oxygen,
and stay together. We'll go over your findings when we get back, Kennedy, andreport on the other tube. See you." 

"Right." The big man had decided to take it with outward pleasantness, atleast, and he managed a smile through his suit's helmet "Luck!" 

Grey should have felt strange as the little lock opened finally and he steppedout, his suit ballooning in the absence of pressure. There was an odd feelinginside, but it was one of homecoming, as near as he could place it. The harshblack shadows and glaring sunlight, with no shadings, looked good to him, andthe jagged ground seemed friendly now. He stepped back out of the others' wayand let them climb down carefully, staring with them at the ship and the scenearound. 

They were in a queer valleylike crater, at one side of which a seeminglytopless cliff rose upward, sheer and colossal. The great ship thrust upseventy feet from the floor on its three legs, a pointed cylinder that endedfinally in the rocket tube and the observation window. Above, the sky wasblack with a harsh sun shining at one side, a swollen Earth on the other,
glowing by the reflected light. It was beautiful in a coldly impersonal way,
and he breathed deeply, 

relaxing. Then, with a shrug, he turned off toward the spot that had shown onthe screen, marking the other ship. 

Ralston and Correy were having troubles in adjusting to the light gravity,
both putting too much effort into it. They bounded along, struggling to keeptheir balance, fighting where they should have relaxed, and only slowlygaining a mastery of the situation. Neff minced primly, not efficiently, butwith fair success, while Wolff hitched himself over the ground with anapparent expectation of instant death. Alice Benson alone seemed to take iteasily, relaxed and quiet, staying at Grey's side. They halted, ahead of theothers, and he could see her smiling. 

"I like this, Grey. It makes me feel young again to walk without effort andactually see myself making progress instead of creeping along. . . . Where areyour shoe plates, lad?" 

He looked down quickly, then realized he'd forgotten to put on the heavy leadplates that were to compensate partially for gravity. He hadn't noticed thelack, though; the feeling of walking here had seemed completely natural tohim. "I guess I don't need them; why not take yours off? You've been taking iteasy enough to be safe, I think, ma'am." 

She put her foot out, and he found himself stooping to remove the plates. Thenshe tried it, a little uncertain at first, but soon moving easily. "This islovely, Grey. It's like those dreams of sliding along above the ground withouteffort. Do you think perhaps men have been here before, leaving memories with 


us—that falling dream and this other?" 

"Doubt it, ma'am. I'm afraid that's romanticism, though I can't prove theyhaven't. Next thing, you'll be expecting to find people here." 

She smiled again, but he wondered if she didn't expect just that Oddly, itwouldn't have surprised him either. Then the others were with them, and theybegan moving down a comparatively gentle slope to the smooth floor of thevalley's bottom. Progress was rapid, now that even Wolff was catching theswing of the loose motion needed; they were traveling along at a sort of lopethat must have covered ten to twelve miles an hour, and the long declineshortened rapidly. 

June tapped on his shoulder and pointed as they neared the bottom. "Look,
Pipsqueak! Is that green down there—growing green?" 

He stared. It was green—the same green as grass would have been. But it meantnothing, he knew. There were plenty of rocks that 

could give the same color, and without an atmosphere how could chlorophyll-
type plants grow? Then out of the corner of his eye, he caught something, anda crazy hunch formed in his mind. "Bet a cigarette against a kiss we findanimals, too!" 

"Done! Now you're being silly." 

The others had heard, of course, and the stirring of excitement was good formorale, at least. They hurried down, Grey, Correy, and Mrs. Benson in thelead, taking it in long easy jumps of twenty feet at a time, a sort of runthat lifted from one foot to the other, as a ballet dancer seems to. A fewminutes more found them at the bottom, staring at the ground. 

It was covered with domes of some thick cellophanelike material, varying insize from a few inches to several feet across, and under them, definitely,
were plants. "Lichens, highly complicated ones, too," Neff said. "They'veadapted somehow." 

Grey nodded. "Probably four or five different types of life together insymbiosis. One must form the dome—that greenish-brown ring they spring from.
Another probably cracks raw material from the rocks, another takes energy fromsunlight, and so on. Looks to me as if they grow by budding out a small cellfrom the main one, and they seem to follow this particular type of rockformation. Carbonates, nitrates, probably gypsum, containing water ofcrystallization. I suppose they could get all the elements of life that way;
the lichens of Earth managed to come out of the water and make soil out of ourrocks before the other plants got there. Life insists on going on. Onlyquestion is how they evolved to begin with." 

He bent down, pricking open the tough skin of one of the smaller domes,
watching it deflate rapidly. The air in them was under considerable pressure,
probably equal to five or six pounds. "You know what this means, don't you?
Well, if worst comes, we could probably pump out a fair quantity of oxygenfrom these things—there are miles of them. Squeeze water out, too, and maybethey have food value. We couldn't live indefinitely, I feel sure, but theymight help." 

Wolff stared at them unbelievingly, but with a flicker of interest. "Until. . 


. ah-" 

"Yeah." It was foolish. "Until we died anyway. There'll be no rescue ship forus. Well, Carrots?" 

"Animals!" she reminded him, grinning. 

"Coming up!" He pointed across the lichen-covered ground toward the motionthat had first attracted his attention. At the time it might have been afalling rock, but now, as it approached, it obviously 

wasn't. Rather it resembled a cross between a kangaroo and a bal-loonlikebird, two long heavy legs under it, and an elongated beak in front. "Watch!" 

The thing had been traveling at a tremendous rate, sailing in bounds. Now itstopped a few yards in front of them, ducked its beak down into one of thebigger domes, and rooted around, gulping up some of the growth there, whilethe dome deflated slightly as it took up all but a little of the air, leavingenough, probably, for the lichen to continue, and no more; the creature shouldhave swelled up enormously, but there was no outward difference. 

"Must have some tricky way of absorbing the oxygen into a loose chemicalcompound, unless it's got a magnificent pressure tank inside it somewhere.
More likely something like a whale uses to store oxygen in its body for a longtrip underwater. Notice how he exudes a cement out of that beak as he draws itout—sealing the dome so he won't kill the lichen completely?" 

June grunted. "Okay, you win, darn it. Look at him go!" 

"Has to—he can't stay on the dark part of the Moon, I'll bet, so he has totravel fast enough to equal the rate of rotation—once around the Moon in amonth. It can be done here, rotation, size, and gravity considered. Thelichens must spore up during the two weeks of night, grow during the day. Andprobably that dome has heat-filtering powers, like no-heat glass; he'scarrying a bright shell on top to reflect heat, you notice. 'Smarter?" 

"I was just thinking of his love life." She giggled again, watching thevanishing creature. "No long courtships here—unless he's like a bedbug,
sufficient unto himself." 

"Probably is. Okay, gang, we've wasted enough time, though we should make astudy of all this. I'll collect later, Carrots." 

They turned on, winding among the domes that were everywhere, bits ofconversation going on over the radios among the others. The finding of lifehere had cheered them all, somehow, made them feel that the satellite wasn'tas unfriendly as it had seemed. There was a kinship to protoplasmic life, nomatter how distant. Grey accepted the fact as a matter of course, wondering ifhe hadn't expected it, and led on, his eyes peeled for a sight of the othership. 

Mrs. Benson beat him to it, though. She stopped, and pointed to the small partshowing, a mere speck across the rough ground. "Grey, June, Philip! See!" 

Now their leaps increased, and they straggled out. Correy ripped her soleplates off, dropped them, and staggered before redoubling 


her efforts to keep up with Grey. But ahead of them, the seemingly feeble legsof Alice Benson sped along, covering the ground with a fluidity of motion thatindicated the dancer she must have been once. There was a faint sound of her 
voice in the phones, and it sounded oddly like praying, but the words were toomuffled for understanding. They stopped as she lifted herself to a slightprojection and looked down. 

"Bill!" It was a shout and a prayer, and the thinness of her voice wassuddenly gone, leaving it strong and young. Grey stared at June, shaking hishead. There were no Bills in either his or Swanson's crew. But again the crycame. "Bill! Oh, God!" 

Then they were beside her, staring down at the ship lying below, on its side,
and Grey caught her as she slumped forward. But he had eyes only for theobject ahead. It wasn't Swanson's ship. Thirty feet long, or slightly less, itwas an even cylinder, blunt fore and aft, one great rocket at one end, andlittle muzzles stuck out athwart, somehow fragile, but apparently with nodamage. Whoever had set it down had done a magnificent job of space jockeying,
coming in at an angle and sliding forward on steel runners, instead of makinga tail landing. He glanced at Coney, but her look was as dumbfounded as hisown. 

Mrs. Benson struggled to her feet, a red spot showing under the pallor of hercheeks. "I'm sorry, children. I'm afraid I was overcome for a minute. You see,
I know that ship. I helped build it—thirty years ago!" 

"Thirty years—just before the Great War?" June looked at her carefully,
searching for hysteria and finding none. "But they didn't have fission motorsthen, nor ion releases. How—fuel rockets?" 

"Bill had a fission motor, June; oh, it wasn't a good one, but it worked. Andhe wasn't using an ion release. He broke water up into monatomic hydrogen andoxygen, then let them explode again. They worked better than any normal oxyhydrogen 
jet could have. Thirty years—and I'm finally here. Now do you see whyan old lady forced herself into your crew, lad? Come, let's go down!" 

They fell in beside her, and now she moved leisurely, telling them the storyas she went, while the others caught up. It could have been a colorful story,
a great one, but she told it simply, giving only the highlights, and lettingthem fill in the rest with their imagination. More than thirty years before,
about the time the Great War was starting, when the first uranium fission wasdiscovered, she'd married a boy with a dream. It must have been a wonderfuldream, for he 

wasn't the type, otherwise, to use his wife's fortune, but he'd done so,
burning it up carelessly while he applied his own rather remarkable geniustoward extracting the elusive U-235 isotope and using it; and he'd succeeded,
while others were groping toward the solution. He'd even managed to work out amotor light enough for the dream he had, and to construct two ships, using anadaptation of the monatomic release already known and used in welding, nowthat he had a reliable source of energy. 

"Two ships?" Grey cut in quickly. 

"Two, Grey. He had to." She went on quietly. One ship had been fitted forhimself—it was impossible for her to accompany him, though they'd tried tomake it that way. The other was radio-controlled. Then he'd taken off in one, 


secretly at night, and she'd sent the other up near him, up until he couldfall into an orbit around the Earth, high enough to have conquered part of thedrag of gravity. One ship couldn't hold enough supplies for the voyage. Butusing his own radio controls, he'd somehow brought the second one beside him,
joined them, and transshipped supplies and fuel, released it, and waited untilhis orbit brought him in position for a try at the Moon. She'd seen his supplyship explode into tiny fragments that could fall back to Earth or driftharmlessly in space, and her watcher in one of the observatories had thoughthe detected the flare that indicated success where Bill had chosen to land. 

"There were two other ships being built," she went on. "I was supposed tofollow, and we hoped that from the two, and what fuel was left, we couldescape the Moon's lighter gravity and return, risking a parachute fall inspacesuits to land on Earth; it might have worked. I think it would, since wecould bake our needed water out of the gypsum here. But the war came—and metalbecame harder to get, and finally unavailable. Our helpers went off to fight,
mostly, and the months slipped by—" 

Hearing her, Grey could imagine the desperate months going, while she foughtvainly to go on, stumbling against the impossible, afraid to tell too much andrelease the horror of atomic energy for war, unable to get supplies or helpotherwise. Three years had been spent in a sanitarium, to come out and findfire had destroyed their shops and the notes that had contained Bill'sprecious secrets. By then, even she knew that saving him was hopeless. Butshe'd promised to meet him there. 

"Some money remained. And I could remember part of the secrets. New engineers,
working from my memory, finally managed to 

separate the isotopes again, and Wohl perfected the motor for me. After that—
well, money wasn't a problem any longer. You see, I own Atomic Power. Nobodyknows it, save a few, and Cartwright, who handles it all for me. . . . That'sright, Wolff, I'm really your employer, though you didn't know why Mr.
Cartwright instructed you to watch over me, as well as report on commercialpossibilities, if any. I didn't want it that way, but he insisted, so you knownow. . . . Anyway, it took time to work out the problems again, differentlythis time, but money can hire brains and what has been done can be done again,
perhaps better. I wanted to go with Swanson, but it was impossible. Now—" Sheput out a hand, touching the ship they had reached. "Now, I've kept my promiseto Bill, finally. I wish—" 

Grey nodded, holding the others back. "Go ahead, ma'am, we'll wait." " 

She smiled faintly, thanking him silently, and opened the little lock of theship that bore her name on its side, her hands fumbling briefly. Then she wasinside, and the others clustered around, forgetting for the moment even theirown and Swanson's plight. Wolff stirred, and Grey snapped at him. "Shut up!" 

Alice Benson's low voice came over the phones this time, and the few wordsshould have been consecration enough for even the soul of her Bill. They heardher at the lock again, and she came down, calm and collected, a little book inone hand, a thin sheet of paper in the other. 

"His body isn't there. It's all here in his diary, which you can read. Billwaited as long as he could, until he knew something had happened; he neverthought we'd failed him! Then he went out in his suit—he wanted to see thisworld he'd found. I think we needn't look for him." She'd labored under no 


delusions of finding him living, and it had been no shock. Now she shook herwhite-haired head and smiled at the crew. "Well, shouldn't we try to findSwanson, Grey? I shouldn't have taken up so much time when they might bedying, and so much depends on our finding the other tube. I'm sorry." 

Grey stirred, such emotions as he had retreating before her self-possession.
"Right, Mrs. Benson. But there's no use searching from here—the ship we sawwas this one, and we'll have to get up to higher ground to spot the other, sowe might as well go back to the Moth. From on top of her we should have a fairview of the area nearby. We'd never find the ship in searching around fromhere." 

She agreed, apparently, and they started back, this time in a solid bunch,
exchanging idle comments about the sights around them. By common consent, thestory of Alice Benson and her Bill was un-mentioned. Slowly, the conversationpicked up, mostly in a discussion of the lichens as they came to them again.
Others of the birdlike creatures were speeding across the ground now, stoppingoccasionally, then driving on in their never-ceasing march around the Moon. 

Grey caught one, and there was no fear about it, only an impatience tocontinue. The flesh was abnormally firm, but was obviously protoplasm, coveredwith some thick, rubbery skin, and it might have weighed forty pounds onEarth. He dropped it again, and it went leaping off after its fellows. 

"They have sex," he commented. "Odd, according to our standards, but there aretwo kinds. See, the females have a pouch, and if you noticed, that one wasfull. I'd guess they were egg-laying, with the eggs hatching in the pouch.
Then the young cling to the little tubes there, drawing air from the mother.
She must feed them with lichens drawn from the domes. Nature seems to stick to 
fairly familiar patterns." 

"Wish I'd brought a camera, at least," Correy muttered ruefully. There was onein the ship, but the quarrel before leaving must have jostled it out of hermind, or else she'd figured on being unencumbered during the rescue attempt. 

Then they were out of the valley of the lichens, going up the slope, and therocket ship began to show up above it, climbing slowly into view until theycould make out the tube, and finally see the tripod resting on the rocks underit, in the little pit the blast had scoured. Grey flipped a switch outside hissuit, and pointed the beam antenna toward the Moth. 

"Come in, Kennedy. Grey calling Kennedy. Come in." 

There was no answer, though he tried again. It wasn't important, but it wasodd. Those radios were supposed to be on at all times, and with full powerrunning through the directional antenna, it should have reached in clearly.
Or, if the man was inside the tube, the metal might blanket out the signal. Inthe ship proper, the outer antenna would have shot it through a speaker; theshort-distance tubes had been sturdier than the trick experimental ones in thespace set, and should still be working. 

The little company loped up beside the ship, and Ralston slid under the tube,
looking up it, and pounding. There was no response, nor could Grey findanything inside when he flashed the beam of his 

headlight in through the inky blackness of the shadows, here where no airdiffused the light. 


"Funny, he must be inside, but why doesn't the fool answer a CQ?" Ralstonasked. 

Helen Neff glared at him resentfully. "Bruce is no fool, Phil Ralston, andhe's probably busy fixing that tube of yours. Don't be so aggressive abouteverything." 

"Urnm." Grey didn't like it. Kennedy was supposed to answer-that was one ofthe rules posted, that all sets should be on when anyone was outside, andanswers should be prompt. It might mean life or death, and if the designer wastaking things into his own hands, there would be an accounting, pronto. "Okay,
inside, all of you!" 

They climbed the ladder, slipped into the lock, and let air come in, then outof the suits and removed helmets rapidly. At a gesture from him, they left thesuits stacked in the lock, breathing the much fresher oxygen-helium mixture ofthe ship; here with light gravity demanding smaller energy from them, the ten-
pound pressure of the air was ample, though it had seemed thin when he firstdropped the pressure in space. 

"Kennedy!" The voice boomed through the room, down into the engine well andthe cockpit, its echo sounding back metallically. Ralston slid down to theengines, and was up again. "Not there, Grey!" "Nor in the cockpit," Junereported. "Where is the stubborn idiot?" 

Alice Benson came back from the hampers, her face tight. "I'm afraid even hedoesn't know, now. His suit's in the locker, and he's nowhere in the ship!" 

Dumbly, they stared at each other, fear climbing into their faces. The shiphad been searched thoroughly, and he wasn't on it. Yet his suit was, and therehad been only seven of them, of which six had been used by the rescue gang. 

"He couldn't have gotten far enough away from the ship without a suit not tobe seen by us. We've got a clear view for hundreds of feet. Phil, get outthere and search!" Grey watched Ralston slide through the lock, his skin tightagain, but his mind troubled only by the paradox presented. 

The boy was back again in fifteen minutes. "Not there! I scoured the wholearea." 

Bruce Kennedy couldn't go a thousand feet without a suit—yet he had. How? 

Ill 

They were no nearer a solution as Mrs. Benson and Neff cleared up the food anddisposed of the thin paper plates. It couldn't have happened, but it had. Ofcourse, it was conceivable that Kennedy might have rigged a sort of oxygenflask and breathing nozzle and gone out, but it was utterly reasonless, in theactinic glare of the sun; he wouldn't have gotten far, anyway, and there wasno use speculating about it 

"Madness," June suggested, not too positively. "There's life here, so theremust be bacteria." 

Neff shook her head. "Anything that would affect such life as we saw wouldn'tbe likely to hit at men; too much difference in body organization. Of course, 


gangrene attacks almost any flesh, but the more complicated diseases arechoosy about their hosts." 

There was no answer to that, beyond the useless speculation of a possibilityamong improbabilities. Grey thrust back and shrugged. "Okay, let's face it.
Kennedy didn't leave. He was taken!" 

"But-" 

"No buts. When there's only one simple solution to a problem, that solution isto be taken as the correct one, unless something else comes up. We found lifehere—plant and animal life. Neither form would have hurt Kennedy, but we don'tknow what kind we failed to find. Granted, there's still the problem of thatlife getting into the air locks and finding Kennedy, without the suit—and theanswer to that is intelligence of some sort. So we're dealing with intelligentlife —pretty highly intelligent, too—and apparently inimical. We don't haveweapons; nobody thought they'd be necessary. Well, we'd all hoped to findintelligent life on Mars, I guess, but we find it here instead." 

Wolff licked his thin lips. "When we get back, the government's going to hearof this!" 

"Yeah? Why? We ship in a space navy and kill off the natives, I suppose, topay for Kennedy. What makes you think the govern-ment'll be interested?" 

"They will. I... ah ... I'm a fair metallurgist, Mr. Grey. There's plenty ofraw materials here, just as Mr. Cartwright suspected. These craters and things. . . umm, whatever caused them forced the rarer metals up out of the innerstrata; Mr. Cartwright thought it might, even if the Moon is made of muchlighter stuff than Earth. We'll tame 

down these Moon creatures, all right; we'll put 'em to work digging out ore,
that's what." 

Ralston bristled. "Slavery went out with the Fourteenth Amendment, you slimysnake. Sure there's metal here—I spotted some pretty rare stuff myself, inscouting over nearer the cliffs. But you won't get far in dealing with anynatives on that line." 

"They're not exactly... ah ... human, you know." Wolff flinched away from theboy's eyes, but held firm. "It isn't exactly slavery to make horses work, isit?" 

The boy took a step toward him, to be halted by Grey. "I agree with you, kid,
but you can't convince that sort of man; he doesn't know about little thingslike ideals, such as you have. This whole problem isn't new—Wolff and Kennedywere talking about it back on Earth, and there are plenty who'd agree withthem, with that plenty having most of the money for something shown to becommercially worthwhile. To you and some of the rest of us—perhaps even to me—interplanetary trips are an ideal, sort of a dream; to them, it means money,
and it doesn't matter how they get it." 

"I'm afraid you're right, lad. Bill used to worry about that, too. . . .
Wolff, I'm paying your salary, still. You'll tell no tales of what we findhere." Alice Benson gave the order firmly, and the man nodded; but Grey sawthe look on his face, and knew how much obedience she could expect. There werepeople who'd pay for information, and Wolff wanted the money. 


"Anyhow, that doesn't settle the problem. Right now, the main thing is to findout where Swanson came down and try to get his tube. Ralston, can you makerepairs, do you think? Good. Then suppose you go up to the emergency lock atthe top and see if you can spot the other ship from there? We'll hope we don'tmeet any of these hypothetical natives until we get off this place, and thesooner we do it, the surer we'll be. The rest of you might as well get readyto go out again." 

Ralston was already swarming up, a small telescope in his hand. Wolff wriggledin his seat. "I ... ah ... don't you think someone should stay here?" 

" 'Smatter, afraid to go out and face those natives you're all set to subdue?
Well, Kennedy stayed on the ship. Like the idea?" 

"There are locks. I. . .umm. . . that is, if it's locked inside—" 

Grey looked at him, his eyes colder than usual, but he shrugged. "Okay, stickaround and whimper, then, and if they do get you, I'll be darned sure nobodylooks for you!... See anything, Ralston?" 

"Spotted it in a few seconds, almost in the shadow of the cliff. Must havebeen too dark when we landed to show up on the screen. About three miles off,
is all." 

That was better luck than Grey had hoped, for a change. He supervised theirentry into and out of the lock, listening to Ralston's description of thelocation, then sent the boy on ahead, holding Correy back. She lookedsurprised as he moved toward her. 

"You owe me something," he reminded, grinning. 

"Darn you! I thought you'd have forgotten. The nerveless wonder, eh? Okay."
She turned her face around, the expression halfway between a grimace and asmile. "Collect, Shylock!" 

He'd never done it before, and his skin was tighter than when finding Kennedygone, but movies are instructive, if one is curious enough about human habits.
Also he found he had instincts that guided his arms and tightened them forhim. Her lips were tense at first, but her own instincts softened them, untilsome of the analytical calm went out of his. Finally, he drew back to find herface faintly flushed. 

"Woof! For a nerveless guy, you do all right, Pipsqueak! Where'd you hidethose muscles, anyway?" She shook back her hair, seemingly surprised atherself. "Now I need that darned cigarette." 

"For an encore—" His grin wasn't as mocking as it should have been, he felt.
He was growing soft himself. But it was worth it. Afterward, she dragged atthe smoke, studying him with an expression he hadn't seen before, then sharingit with him in a hasty consumption of the cigarette. Outside the lock, someonewas pounding out a signal for them to come on, and they moved out, bothlooking foolish. Alice Benson smiled, and the others were grinning, amusementtemporarily stronger than their worries. June avoided his glance and slippedback, leaving the older woman beside him as they started. 

It was rougher ground this time, and almost impassable from Earth standards, 


but they skimmed through easily enough here, leaping over the heavierboulders, or moving from one high spot to another. Going was comparativelyslow, since Grey had to pick the trail, but progress was entirelysatisfactory. No sign of life showed on any side; there were no trails, noindications of intelligent construction. Only the forbidding cliff loomed upcloser, jagged edges of it unshaped by wind or water. 

Grey waited for Alice Benson, his eyes admiring her as she made the spring tohis side. "I wonder what sort of a girl you were, ma'am? Right now, you're thebest man in the bunch!" 

"Thank you, Grey. It's nice not to be a nuisance." Then she smiled. 

"As a matter of fact, I was a little imp. Just about the same sort as JuneCorrey. That girl's got good stuff in her; all she needs is a bridlel" 

June's grunt came in scornfully. "Don't get ideas from her, Half-Pint. It'lltake a man to put that bridle on!" 

He started to answer, then caught the older woman's warning head-shake, andleft it to her judgment. The girl looked up, expecting a reply, frowned whennone came, and seemed surprised. Mrs. Benson winked at Grey, as they picked uptheir way again, leaving him wondering why. Maybe he was soft, but he wasn'tfool enough to think he'd have a chance with the girl—even if he wanted to. 

Finally, the ship became visible, lying close to the cliffs. It had been hardhit, there was no doubt of that; apparently it had landed on only one leg ofthe tripod, and had been falling too rapidly. The leg had crumpled under it,
letting the whole side of the ship slip over and come crashing down. Where theengines were located, the walls had broken in, though the tripod leg must havesoaked up most of the initial shock, leaving a comparatively small blow fromthe crash. 

The fact that the two flares had been set off, however, indicated that the airwithin must not have been lost; the ships were designed to take a fair blow ontheir thin outer skin without it breaking the walls of the living quarters. Heflipped the switch over, beaming in his call. "SwansonI Englewood! Marsden!
Ship Lunar Moth calling spaceship Delayed Meeting! Come in!" 

They hung waiting for an answer, but none came. It meant nothing, though. Anyone of numerous reasons could have existed for the lack of response. The menmight be dead, or nearly so. Or the antenna outside the ship might have beenbroken; more probably, the whole radio outfit was smashed, since no signal hadbeen pushed through to Earth. He shortened the distance in long bounds untilhe was directly under it 

As it lay, the air lock was within reach, and he stretched up and twisted thehandle. It came open easily, letting the four climb into the lock behind him;
it closed smoothly after them with a sudden hiss of air. He flipped open hishelmet, sampling it; he'd expected it to be overused and stale, but beyond thesmell of too much passage through the filters, there was nothing wrong, andthe others followed his example in taking off his helmet. 

Then the inner lock opened to show the living quarters, smaller even thanthose of the Moth, and in wild disarray. Seals had been 

clamped down over the engine and cockpit tubes, indicating both had lost their 


air. Inside, there was no one! 

Grey shook his head, glancing into the food and water tanks and noting thatthey were still half full, jerked open the paper drawer, spilled the log outinto his hands, and riffled through its pages quickly. The first entries wereabout the routine preparations, the takeoff, and the coast through space afterkilling the blast. Then trouble, just as it had appeared on the Moth, butworse. 

June 29: Landed somehow last night, expecting the blast to cease entirelyevery moment. It was crooked, and we tipped side-wise, breaking open theengine room. Poor Englewood didn't have a chance. Buried him today afterfinding the radio ruined and setting off our flares; doubt they'll be visiblefrom Earth, but we hope somehow they'll be noticed. Marsden is quite confidentof a rescue by the second ship. With two of us, we can hold out some time.
First men on the Moon! 

That, Grey knew now, was wrong, though Swanson and Marsden had every right tobelieve it at the time. There followed pages of their estimates, their minoractivities in going outside, and a gradually dimming hope as they figured morecarefully on the length of time needed to complete the other ship. 

July 11: Marsden and I talked it over this morning and decided that one mancan easily last until rescue, two almost certainly cannot. We agreed to drawlots tomorrow. Tonight, while the boy's sleeping, I'll go out; I've alreadyseen a fair sample of life, and I'm content. Keep a stiff upper lip, Bob, andwhen you read this, I hope you'll realize I was right in going. 

July 12: Poor Bob Marsden. He must have drugged my food, for I lay downexpecting to wait for him to sleep, then slept myself. When I awoke, he wasgone, leaving only a note wishing me good luck. I went out of the locksearching for him, but on this ground there is no spoor, and I failed. A fineassistant, a gentleman, and a great guy! God rest his soul. Somehow, I'll lastuntil rescue comes, to make sure he gets the credit he's earned. 

After that, entries became rarer, though they were still hopeful. A straybiblical quotation showed how Swanson was filling his time. Then Grey came tothe last brief entry. 

July 23:1 miss having someone to talk to, but I'm fairly cheerful. Tomorrow Imust clean up the mess I've made of my living quarters. I took some of thelitter out and buried it today. My spade turned up gold—a rich vein of it;
thank God, it isn't worth carrying back to Earth, or the Moon might seeanother bloody chaos such as the other gold rushes have been, and the goldreserves be flushed beyond all value as a monetary exchange. I suspect thereare more valuable ores, though. 

Beyond that there were only blank pages. Grey looked for any small note, butnone was present. "Wish I knew how many suits they had." 

Mrs. Benson answered. "Two—they were supposed to leave one man inside at alltimes, so only a pair of suits were provided. You mean—" 

"Probably. There's a well-used suit in the locker, and Marsden must have wornthe other. Get all the pictures you can to confirm it, will you, Correy? Andwe'll take the log along. Something must have taken Swanson out without asuit—again with no sign of a struggle." 


He clapped his helmet back on and headed for the lock, out of the way whileshe snapped the pictures and pulled the finished negative roll out. Then theyfiled back again toward the rear of the Delayed Meeting. Neff, he noticed, wasshivering and sticking closer to Philip Ralston, who seemed almost glad of thetroubles that confronted them. June was frowning, looking to him forinstructions. 

He had none. Hunting the missing men was worse than senseless. All they coulddo now was to remove the necessary parts from the big tube, if possible, andproceed back to the Moth. He motioned to Ralston, and the two rounded theship, proceeding to the tube. 

Only the shell was left! The lining had been entirely removed, and as heflashed his light inside, he could see that a few bolts were left, all wiresand connecting pipes cleanly snipped off. Someone had removed it before them.
"God!" Ralston stepped back slowly, his face falling back to its formerbitterness. "Now what?" 

Grey dropped to the ground beneath, his light on, searching for some faintclue as to the ones who had done it, but there were none; the hard rock heldno imprints, and the coating of dust was undisturbed, though there was no windto blow it about and remove 

prints. The whole lining would have been a staggering load for all five ofthem, even here, but there was no sign as to its removal. 

"Now, I suppose we go back to the ship empty-handed again! Six of us left, andwith the provisions and air from this ship as well as the Moth, we can livefor at least two months, by taking it easy. Then, or rather before then, we'llhave to try getting air and food from the lichens. Maybe those bird-things areedible, too, though I doubt it. Perhaps we can find ores and materials to makea repair on that Moth that will work." He looked at the boy, who made noanswer; it was just as well, since Grey knew they had no tools for all thatwork. But it would leave some faint hope for the others, perhaps. 

They spread out again, going slowly this time. Grey wondered whether there wasany hope of finding the natives, if such they were. If so, they might not beinimical, but only different, and some contact might be made that would enablean understanding. To himself, though, he still doubted the existence ofintelligent lunarities; the birds could exist by keeping in motion—but couldintelligence appear from such a life? And it would take a pretty faircivilization to reach the stage where they could survive the long night in oneplace; until that stage was reached, intelligent evolution seemed out of thequestion, and without intelligence, the stage was impossible. 

Correy was beside him, and he noticed her flip her switch, addressing him overa beam that left the others out. "Curtains, do you think? Give it to mestraight, Half-Pint." 

He beamed his own answer. "Probably, though we may be able to stave it off forquite a while. And—blooey goes space travel; it was bad without two accidents,
but now they'll be surer than ever it won't work! Just the same, we'll try toget back, somehow. Maybe we can get Bill Benson's old machine to working,
since it's in good condition, and send one person back with the straight ofit, maybe to lead a rescue trip. We've got the fuel he needed, and we can bakeout water for his jets. Willing to try it?" 


"Me? Chivalry getting the best of you again?" But her eyes carried the samespeculative glint he'd seen before. "I'd risk it, if necessary, of course." 

"No, but you're the official reporter for this trip, and you've got theconnections to put it across; I haven't. The others aren't acceptable, either,
that seems like the answer, so far. Anyhow, if I don't get you out from undermy feet, I'm likely to find myself beginning to get used to you, sort of. Thenyou'd probably be insufferable." 

"Think so?" He could read nothing in her remark, and put it down todevilishness that wanted to make more of a fool of him. "I'm afraid you'd be,
Pipsqueak. I like men, but—" 

She snapped back to nondirectional sending, dropping back beside Mrs. Bensonand leaving him to lead on alone. But if he was supposed to think about her,
she was mistaken. He had other worries, and he turned to them. Right now he'dhave been just as happy without the responsibility of the command he'dassumed, though he knew that there was more need of it now than ever. Aheadloomed the Lunar Moth, and the best observatory from which to survey thesurrounding moonscape for some sign of life. 

He leaped ahead of the others, flipping the switch and calling the ship. Hisfears were justified; there was no response, and Wolff would have been- tooglad to have them return not to answer. So now Wolff was among the missing!
Not that it was any loss, but it added somewhat to the mystery. How did thethings know when to strike? 

Obviously their method was shaping up. They apparently made no move to seize agroup, but chose to pick them off one by one. Bill Benson and Bob Marsden wereaccounted for. But they'd taken Swanson after waiting—either because of thelock or for reasons of their own—then Kennedy at the first opportunity, andnow Wolff. Seemingly, then, if they all stuck together, they might be safe.
And again, they might not. 

He gripped the outer lock, relieved to find it still unlatched; if they —
whoever they were—could unfasten it from the outside, they could fasten itagain—and he had no means of forcing his way in. A relieved look came to theothers, who apparently assumed that Wolff was opening it, but Grey saidnothing, waiting until he was inside and the facts were confirmed beforeadding to their troubles. Then his suit was off and he was pushing open theinner seal to finish inspection. 

A gentle snore answered him, and the body of Kennedy rolled back from the dooras Grey pushed it, the man sleeping heavily, but apparently untouched! Wolffwas nowhere to be seen, and there was no answer to Grey's shout. Kennedy didnot awaken, but went on snoring easily, relaxed, sliding slowly aside as thepilot pushed the lock the rest of the way and stepped into the room. 

Neff stared as Grey picked up the big designer and dumped him into a moreconvenient place, her mouth open and her eyes threatening to pop out of herhead. "He's back!" 

"That's right, so he is! Suppose you see why he's still asleep after 

all the pushing he's just received." Grey made way for her, wondering how suchan old-maidish child could ever have decided on a trip like this one, or how 


she'd ever become a first-class physician with her ideas untouched. "He'seither been injured pretty badly or it's drugs." 

She began fussing over the man then, and Grey watched, wondering how alienlife could know the physiological effect of drugs on a human being, unlessthey'd decided to give him something harmless, and this had happened. Thatmight possibly account for his return; if they were curious rather thanunfriendly, they would have decided to bring the man back to where his ownkind could minister to him and correct their unexpected harm. On the otherhand, this sleep might be the exhaustion following some peculiar mentaltorture, and his return a warning to get away and stay away. 

It was up to Neff, now; if she could revive him, they'd soon find the answersfrom the man himself. Now she was injecting some colorless fluid into him,
watching the reaction. Then she turned to the crew. "I'm sure it's drugs. ButI can't guess which one would produce this result; those that show so fewmarked signs—he seems almost normally asleep—shouldn't have such a strongeffect. But I think the stimulant I gave should overcome it." 

Apparently she was right, for Kennedy began twisting, his mouth workingloosely; it wasn't a pretty sight, and the girl turned away, avoiding it. Thenhe grunted in purely involuntary sounds. She bent again, giving him anothershot, and waiting for it to take effect. 

The reaction was stronger and faster this time, and the man sat up abruptly,
staring at the others. "Uh . . . Grey, Ralston, what are we doing here? Won'tbe takeoff for hours. Say, how'd I get here?" 

"That's what we want to know. What happened? Did you see the other life, andwhat's it like? Any message of any kind sent back with you?" 

Kennedy shook his head, puzzled. "I don't know what you're talking about. Say,
it feels funny here. . . . Where the deuce am I, anyway?" 

"Still on the Moon, of course; the tube's missing from Swanson's ship-" 

"The Moon!" His face contorted, and he looked from one to the other inamazement. "You kidding? . . . No, guess not. It feels like a light-gravityeffect should, and things look funny here. How'd we get up here, though? LastI remember, we were told to lie down and to 

catch up on sleep before the takeoff. Don't tell me I slept through the wholething?" 

"Hardly. You were supposed to be fixing the tube. Then you were gone when wecame back." Grey could make no sense of it; Kennedy had an excellent memoryand a clear mind, whatever his faults. "Pull yourself together, will you, andtry to recall what happened? There's a lot depending on it, especially sinceWolff's gone." 

"Uh, I dunno . . . Lord, I'm sleepy!" He was yawning and fell back, his eyesclosing. "Can't remember a thing, Grey. Go 'way and lemme sleep. Lemme sleep."
The other words that he started to say faded out into an indistinct mumbling,
followed by the same even snoring Grey had first heard. Shaking him had noeffect, either. 

Neff shrugged thin shoulders. "If he can sleep with all that injection in him, 


I give up. It might not be safe to wake him again. No drug acts like that! Doyou think—" 

"I don't think anything. At first, he was clear-headed enough, it seemed, andhe didn't remember a darned thing; he wasn't fooling us. Well?" 

The others had no suggestions, though they obviously had imaginations thatwere working overtime. Grey's was quiescent; the facts as he now found themfitted into neither of the possibilities that had occurred to him, and he wasno nearer a solution of the intentions of the other life than before. 

"Wolff's gone, as you've probably noticed. I can't say I consider that a greatloss, but I'd look for him if I had any idea where to search. Until one of youcan figure that out, I'm going outside, over to Benson's little ship. I wantto look the motor and other things over. The rest of you stay here and keep aneye open for anything suspicious." 

June frowned at him. "You can't go out there alone, Runt! These things seem topick out anyone who's by himself, and they're likely to get you. Don't be afool!" 

"Maybe I want them to get me, Carrots." He headed for the lock, screwing onhis helmet. "I'll be back when I get here, and if I don't come back, you're noworse off—you've got that much more provisions to divide among you. See you!" 

The inner door closed behind him, and he passed out and down the ladder.
Correy's yells had disappeared with the closing lock, and now only the soundof his own feet striking the rocks beneath him reached his ears, carried upthrough the air inside his suit. If there 

was life waiting for him, it could approach soundlessly, but he refused tospend his time looking back over his shoulder. 

He sped along, through the valley of the lichens, up the rise, and across therocks to the Mice, seeing no hint of life other than what he'd already seen.
For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if they had guessed his purpose and werewaiting for him inside the ship; then he shrugged and reached up for its tinylock. 

They were all waiting when he returned, or rather picking at food that hadbeen placed before them, and in the few minutes he'd stood outside the innerseal, he'd heard no words spoken. They jumped as he threw back the door,
varied expressions crossing their faces. Ralston mirrored frank relief andadmiration, Correy's face lighted momentarily. Grey reached back into thelock. 

"Any disturbances while I was gone? Hear anything?" 

"Not a sound, Grey. We were peaceful enough, waiting to hear something fromyou come over the speaker. Another ten minutes and I'd have followed you." Theboy was tackling his food now with a much better appetite. 

"Umm." Grey drew in the figure of Wolff, flaccid and snoring faintly. Hedragged it to the middle of the floor. "Little present for you! Found himbetween the outer and inner seals, just like that. Lucky I spotted him at once 


and got in before the air rushing out had time to do him any real damage. Hewas quiet enough for you not to hear him, but I can't figure how they pushedopen the lock and carried him in without sounds reaching you. Look him over,
Neff." 

Her diagnosis was rapid this time. "Exactly the same as the other! Do youthink I should try to revive him?" 

"Don't bother. You'd get the same results. Notice, though, that he isn'twearing a suit of any kind, and that means they either had suits for humans orelse they carry their customers in some kind of airtight vehicle. A man canstand a little vacuum if he doesn't panic —but only for a few seconds. Nicelittle game, isn't it? Only it isn't a game . . . there's a good sound reasonbehind this, somewhere; practical jokers don't work that hard. Find thereason, and maybe you'll have the clue to them." 

They put the sleeping Wolff in his sack, for want of a better place for him,
and Grey shook his head as Mrs. Benson began putting 

down paper dishes for him. "Not now. I'm going up and have a look through thetop emergency lock." 

"What did you find at the other ship?" Coney asked, still looking at the sacksthat held Wolff and Kennedy. 

"Guess! I should have expected it, but I didn't." 

She glanced around at him, curiosity giving place to sudden suspicion. "Themotors had been removed. Is that it?" 

"That's it. They've been gone a long time, too. There was still some air inthe ship—nice construction there—and the metal was dulled on the bolts,
showing the nuts had been removed long before this. No hope there." He pulleddown the little ladder leading up to the escape hatch and began climbing. Junebrushed back her hair, following him up the long climb and into the littlelock that was just big enough for the two of them. Four little quartz windowsgave a view of the crater around them, once the shutters were pulled back; ithad been intended as a lookout station as well as an escape. 

As he swung the telescope from one side to the other, nearly all of the craterwas visible, stretching out to the abrupt horizon on one side and to thetowering cliffs on the other. He was looking for a trace of a trail, a clearedsection among the rough rocks, or any sign of life, but he found none. Nobuildings, no piles of trash, not the faintest hint of intelligence; then hecaught sight of a long stretch of the bird-creatures hopping in a stream fromsome point beyond his vision to eat and replenish their air before rushing outof sight again. 

"Maybe they don't live here," Correy hazarded. "They could come from someother part, only visiting here to take away or bring back somebody." 

"They could, but I don't believe it. They're somewhere near, or they wouldn'tbe so quick to know when we're all away and spot our weak moment. Well, thatleaves only one place—the cliff!" He swung the telescope then, studying therugged wall, until she took it from his hand and looked herself. 

"It doesn't look like home to me, Half-Pint. If people lived there, you'd 


expect them to have some structure outside their entrance." 

"But these aren't necessarily people. They might have different ideas." 

"I suppose." She put the telescope down, rubbing her eyes. "I can't seeanything, but I'll try again when my eyes clear up—hurts too much to lookacross this glare. . . . You wouldn't have any of those cigarettes left, wouldyou?" 

He grinned, holding up the package that was still half full. "Mm


hmm. I'm no pig, Redhead. Look nice? . . . No, now wait a minute —don't get sohurried about it. There should be some kind of ritual to using this reserve,
don't you think? Any suggestions?" 

"Darn you, Grey! Keep your cigarettes, then!" 

"As you like." He selected one deliberately, running it back and forth overhis thumb, tamping down the end, and lighting it. The little end glowed in thesemidusk of the cubbyhole, and the thin wash of air that came in through thepipes only served to stir the smoke around, letting it cloud the air beforedrawing it out. Grey grunted in animal comfort, doubling his legs under himand sprawling out on the floor. "Our favorite brand, too! Seems a pity tothink of their being gone so soon." 

She held out longer than he'd expected, knowing how thoroughly tied to thehabit she was. Then she shrugged and flopped down beside him. "Okay, okay, bea cad if you want to. What'll you do when they're all gone?" 

"Use the two whole cartons left on Swanson's ship—Englewood and Marsden leftquite a supply, and Swanson never used them, apparently. Since we're the onlyones who smoke on this scow, they should last quite a while. Don't go lookingfor them, though; they're all locked up in my hamper. Hey!" He sat up, rubbinghis face, and grabbed. 

She ducked, grinning at him. "You're a rat, Nemo Grey, and you deserve worse.
That's the lousiest trick I've heard of!" 

"It is," he admitted cheerfully, beginning to understand why men who workunder a strain devote so much of their free time to horseplay, partly amusedat himself, and partly amazed. "What are you going to do about it, though?" 

"Slit your throat when I'm sure there are none left, I suppose. . . . Now, doI get that darned smoke?" 

There were four butts on the floor when he finally picked up the telescopeagain, and he was less amused, more amazed. She brushed her clothes, rising.
"This is a lunatic world, all right, Half-Pint. People go crazy here. . . .
Did you know that NefFs decided somehow Phil's her heartthrob, after all?
Well, she has, and he's half delirious about it; doesn't care whether he getsback or not." 

"Dunno what he sees in her; he's a swell kid, though, and I'm glad he's happy.
. . . Umm! Take a look over there—between the green-black stuff and the crackbeyond it. See what I do?" 

She looked, her forehead wrinkling. "A hole, maybe? Looks something like one." 


"Must be. They have to have some place to live, and I'll bet they're oxygenbreathers. Wish me luck, Red-Top!" Grey caught the rope and was down hand-
over-hand, moving toward the lock, with her at his heels. "Uh-uh, you stayhere. I think I've spotted their hideout, Ralston, and I'm going scouting.
Take command while I'm gone." 

Correy caught the inner seal and slid through. "I'm protecting the cigarettesupply, you usurer! You're not running off and leaving me without a smoke.
Don't say it! It won't do any good." 

He knew she meant it, and nodded, climbing into his suit and helping her withher own outfit. At that, taking someone along might be a good idea, since atleast one of them would stand some chance of getting away and back to the shipwith information. They jumped from the lock and went leaping across the rocks,
heading toward the cliff, each selecting a path separate from the other, butfairly close. Swanson's ship was half a mile to their right as they passed it,
then the ground grew rougher, breaking into jagged gullies and humps of rock,
and they were forced to slow down. 

"Plenty of minerals here," he called over the phones. "I'll bet the bottom ofthat cliff is a treasure house; may even contain radium in fair quantity. Hey,
where are you?" 

She was out of sight, but her voice came back instantly. "Left, down thegully; it turns and it's narrow, but it looks like the best way. Come on." 

He saw the place she meant and headed down after her. Freakishly, the floorwas fairly smooth, and his bounds carried him along at a brisk pace. Correywasn't waiting for him, apparently satisfied that nothing could jump on themhere. Then the crack straightened out and he could see her ahead, passingthrough the narrowest section. He glanced to his right, wishing he knewsomething more of metals and their ores, and back in time to see her sprawl onher face. 

"June!" 

"I'm—all right, I guess. Jarred a rock loose, and it hit my back. I . . .
Grey! Help! My air tube's cut!" Her voice was frantic, and he could see thesuit collapsing. She wriggled and her voice was sick and weak. "Grey!" 

"Steady!" He was leaping toward her now without caution. "Hold your breath, ifyou can. I'll be there in a second. Don't waste your energy. There." He caughtthe rock that was still on her, tossing it aside, and looking down at thelacerated tube that led the oxygen into the helmet from the tank. It wasshort, and normally protected, 

but a jagged edge had slit it neatly and the last air was rushing out as hewatched, faster now that the rock no longer plugged the hole. 

With desperate haste, he jerked his mittens from his hands, snapping the wristbands closed to save his air, and his naked fingers swept down onto thescorching metal of the tube, wrapping around it tightly, covering the damagedsection. The air rushed back into the suit as he twisted the valve, and hecould hear her breath catch. "Take it easy, now. Breathe deeply a few times—
empty your lungs after each. That's right. I'll have to take a couple ofminutes to screw in the spare one. . . . Thank the Lord, there is one. . . . 


And you'll be forced to hold your breath again. Now—a normal breath and holdit!" 

The sun had been glaring down on the metal, heating it, though part of thetrip had been through pools of shadow. But he had no time to worry about burnsas his fumbling fingers screwed out the old tube and fastened in thereplacement. The ten pounds of pressure in his body made his hands seem puffyin the vacuum, though it was insufficient to cause serious damage. Finally,
though, the new tube was in, and he turned on the valve again, letting oxygenfeed in to her. 

She came to her feet shakily, looking at his reddened hands, over which he wasdrawing his mittens. "I'm Sony, Grey. I shouldn't have been so careless.
You're—" 

"Forget it!" He was breathing heavily himself, ashamed of the shakiness of hislegs, and his voice was brusque. "Nothing serious. We stick togetherhereafter, that's all. Come on!" 

"Wait!" It came over the phones, without directional sense, but they bothswung around to see Alice Benson coming toward them. "Wait, please. I've hadthe hardest time following you two from the little I could see of you. Youdon't mind, do you?" 

"Ralston had no business letting you come, ma'am," Grey told her. "Why'd youdo it?" 

"Because I'm tired of waiting for things to happen, lad. I want to know what'sgoing on, just as much as you do. And here, I'm almost young again, so Ididn't think I'd be a nuisance. Besides, what's the difference, really? If youget caught, I'd be stranded here, anyway, to die slowly." 

"Let her come, Grey?" June asked. He thought it over briefly and nodded,
starting again toward the cliff. 

As she'd said she was agile enough here to be no handicap, and the chancescould be no worse. They slipped through the end of the 

cut, and were against the bottom of the cliff; above them, the dark circlethat must be a hole could be seen clearly, sixty feet up the steep side of therocks. 

He wasted no time in explaining his methods, but made a running leap, risingnearly twenty feet off the ground, and managing to catch an outcropping abovethe smooth bottom part. Somewhere, his feet found a place to hold on, and hespotted another hold within reach before removing a small coil of ropecarefully and lowering it to the other two, who swarmed up quickly and caughtthe same jagged tooth of rock. 

Actually, what had looked hard because of Earth memories proved surprisinglyeasy, their bodies in the suits weighing less than a quarter Earth weight, andthe cliff being covered with sharp, uneroded cracks arid projections. Therewas a little shelf beneath the hole, and they were standing on it in a matterof seconds, staring into absolute blackness. 

"We'll have to feel forward," he ordered. "No lights!" 


The utter black was eerie, having none of the usual slight hints of lightfound in an atmosphere; he tested each step, one hand held to the cold rockwall, the other above and in front to locate something that might bump againsthis helmet. Foot by foot, they advanced, the breathing of the other two heavyin his phones. Then his hand found a flat obstruction, felt along it, andrevealed it as a smooth, rounded end to the tunnel. He put his hands over hislamp, leaving only a slight hole, and switched the beam on and forward. Infront of him, a metal door was set into the rock, a handle projecting from it,
and a row of odd characters beside the handle. On the other side, Englishletters showed whitely: "WELCOME!" 

June gasped, but his own mind found a hint of a solution. They'd had Swansonfor days now, and some kind of communication might have been set up. Whetherthe sign was actually a greeting or a trap, he had no way of knowing. Norcould he be sure that its meaning was anything beyond a bit of grim humor onSwanson's part. 

He tried the handle, found that it turned easily, and stepped in, a glare oflight springing down as he did so. The two women cried out, but followed, andthe door closed automatically, while a sudden hiss of air spilled in. Secondslater, another seal opened by itself, leading out into a long, smooth hall ofwhite stone, lighted softly from the sides and ceiling. Grey's skin tightened,
but he entered, the others behind him, and the inner seal swung softly shut. 

The air, as he tested it, was sharp with the smell of ozone, and 

slightly thinner than even the mixture in the ship, but it was breathable, andrather pleasant after a minute. He debated leaving his suit on for anemergency escape, then decided against it; those automatic doors couldundoubtedly be sealed against him at any time. He was in it now, and had tosee it through. 

"We might as well be comfortable," he told the others. "Let's take 'em off andgo ahead to meet our hosts in suitable style. Wonder why they haven't shown upyet? Here, Carrots, light up!" 

"Thank you, kind sir," she said, mock amazement on her face. "If I didn't seeit, I still wouldn't think there weren't strings to the offer somewhere. Whereto? Down the hall?" 

"All we can do. Want to try it, Mrs. Benson?" 

"I do, Grey. People who can design these soft lights and cut such rock to makewalls can't be all bad. This is culture, and a well-developed one, too." 

Their steps were muffled by some form of carpeting on the floor as they passeddown the hall and rounded the corner into a room beyond it. Then they stopped,
staring. 

Bob Marsden tossed aside the strange roll of writing he was studying andbounded forward, a grin on his homely face, with Swanson at his heels. "Earthpeople, finally! Howdy, folks. I see they didn't bring you in asleep?" 

Swanson was pumping Grey's hand, grinning. "So they picked you for this trip,
eh? Good. Heard you did better than I did, too. How about introducing theladies, fellow? . . . Hey, Burin Dator, you've got guests!" 


Into the room, a creature walked, resembling a man somewhat in generalformation, though only three feet tall and slightly built. The features on thehead spread wider apart, the nose lying under the mouth instead of above, andthe skin was thick and leathery, entirely devoid of hair. He resembled a roughrubber caricature of a human being, but his appearance was somehow civilizedand pleasant, as any well-formed and graceful animal is pleasant. 

"Mike!" It was a low rumbling voice, oddly at variance with his size, but theintonation was hearty and genuinely glad. "Mike, boy, you finally returned.
We've missed you around, been wondering why you didn't make the first trip.
Swanson here explained you couldn't, so we were pretty sure you'd make therescue ship, but we didn't get close enough to see you, and the description wewormed out of that man, Kennedy, wasn't exact enough to make sure. I was justabout to go out and meet your gang. . . . Welcome home, boy!" 

Burin Dator slid his delicate "hand" into Grey's, his eyes warm and anexpression Grey knew to be meant for a smile on his face. "Sound generalassembly! Mike's come home! Lursk, some of that synthetic wine! This calls fora celebration!" 

It had been quite a celebration at that, with others of the Martians troopingin and joining quietly, all regarding Grey with the same look of familiarity.
Finally Burin Dator shoved back his seat and led them into a comfortable roomwhere padded seats were arranged gracefully around a low table and along thewalls, his wrinkled face beaming. The Earth trio followed in growing surprise,
somewhat annoyed by Swanson and Marsden, who chose to answer no questions;
they were still unsure that this was real, eager for explanations that hadbeen hinted at. Grey was clutching his sanity grimly, unconsciously stickingclose to June for a straw of normality to cling to. 

The little Martian selected a seat leisurely. "Comfortable, everyone? Isincerely regret the unpleasantness of our first contacts with you, but it wasnecessary that we find out what type you were. Unfortunately, the two men whomwe first obtained were both of a type we've been forced to take measuresagainst, so they were returned in good health, but somewhat restrained." 

June stirred. "Just what did you do to them?" 

"Nothing permanently unpleasant, I assure you. We removed some of theirmemories, after determining that their words on your Earth would have badresults for us—they were filled with a desire to exploit this world, you know.
They've forgotten the last few days, with the help of a little surgery, andnow are under a drug to keep them from knowing more. We'll give you anantidote to counteract it before landing again. ... It was rather ticklishwork, removing some memory, but leaving all except the very recent events, andI'm a little proud that we didn't have to blank their whole minds." 

"Earth surgeons can destroy memory," Grey agreed; he should know somethingabout it, since the whole subject naturally interested him. "But they can't dothat, certainly not to another race. You've got good reason to be proud." 

"It was difficult. But remember that our hands are somewhat more delicate than 
yours, and that we've studied the mind of human type with great care, onlyrecently realizing how it sorted its memories and what nerves controlled them.
Also, where your race leads ours immeasurably in mechanics and inventiveness, 


we are much further 

advanced in medicine, psychology, and the general study of life-chemistry andthought than you. Swanson wasn't our first, nor Mars-den; we met our firstEarthman much before that." 

Alice Benson leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "That man, Mr. Dator—was hisname Bill Benson?" 

"It was, lady. And I gather you're his wife, so we'll turn over his manuscriptwork to you before you leave. He believed you were dead when you didn't come,
not knowing of that war you had, or he would probably have gone back. . . .
But, to begin, we on Mars had a better medium of observation than you—our airis thinner, causing less loss of detail in astronomical observation. We sawhis flare on the Moon by chance, observed and analyzed it carefully, anddecided that it indicated there was life on your world, and that you hadsuccessfully bridged space. At the time, we had completed, by a fortunatecoincidence, a spaceship upon which our people—or at least our group —had beenworking some two hundred of your years; we are slow at such things, as I said.
It used a simple oxygen-hydrogen jet, since it was barely possible from ourlight-gravity world to your Moon, and I was fortunate enough to be one of thecrew. Then, when we finally located Bill Benson, it took us nearly a month torepair the injuries to his health from his wanderings outside the ship and hisexhausted air. Tracking him was very difficult here, and he was nearly deadwhen we finally located him. It took time to establish a common understanding,
but while our people and yours differ surprisingly, their similarity in socialbehavior and thought is much more surprising." 

The Martian paused, thinking before resuming. "Like you, we have a practicaltype and an idealistic one. From the former, there could be only trouble in ameeting of races; it would be a struggle for supremacy, and would go ill forboth. Unlike you, our idealists recognized the fact when the first attempts atconstructing a rocket were begun and organized a small, secret group. It isfrom them that all our people here are drawn, and only that group knows of oursuccess. We are forced to deceive the others. Bill Benson agreed that only theidealists of his race must know, also. You are such, so are we. The two menasleep in your ship are not, and they cannot know, nor must your world. 

"Because this world is rich in things we both need, ores and materials thatare immensely precious, even in small loads. World-shaking fortunes are to bemade from them, and from the secrets gleaned by each from the other. We'vealready begun using them— 

your engines, your gadgets, the other things Bill Benson could describe, andespecially your atomic energy, which is the real key. They're infilteredslowly, outwardly the result of individual luck or skill, and you must do thesame. 

"What we envision, then, is a small group on each planet, controllinggradually larger amounts of that world's wealth, seemingly with no connectionshere, until such a company holds the balance of power. It would be composed,
quite naturally, at the head, of men who know and sympathize. Then, when theidealists have paved the way, we can open the gates between the races,
controlling the opinions carefully so the mobs will agree with us. We cannever live on your heavy planet, and you would find ours most uninviting, buthere—your Moon—we find a common ground for the future of both races. The otherway, we fear destruction. Can it be done?" 


Grey nodded, his mind filled with that huge plan for a future perhapscenturies later. "It can be done, I think. Certainly the men who control thefinance of a nation can do a great deal to shape its thoughts and laws." 

"And the nucleus of the company already exists," Mrs. Benson pointed outeagerly. "I own Atomic Power, which itself is a powerful instrument. At themoment, my liquid assets are depleted, but that is only money; the real wealthis still untouched. Cartwright, who runs it for me, probably is not to betrusted, but he is due to retire soon. Then my nephew is supposed to takeover, and he'd know to organize better than anyone else. If we were to land ona desolate place, damaging our ship afterward and radioing for help, thenrepresent the Moon as completely unprofitable, a dangerous, useless place—" 

"Precisely, lady." Burin Dator favored her with another of his toothlessgrins. "Those two men were mentally impaired by some kind of radiation, as youwould have been yourself, of course, had your age not kept you within theship—only the very young can withstand it— and the others of you all can bemade to show severe suffering, by certain drugs we have. Such pictures as havebeen taken will show nothing. Then you organize secretly, forming miningcompanies, small inventive groups, and so forth, and building a very small butefficient fleet of space freighters—based on some remote island, I believe—tocarry the idealists and the refined metals that are valuable in tinyquantities—jewels, too, to be found in the craters—and we can safely trust thefuture from there." 

Grey could agree with it, and could see how the company could operate quietly,
not as one, but as many. It still left the big problem 

on his hands, however. "How do we get back? Our tube's shot, and you probablyuse something different that won't fit the Mothl" 

"We use a type of propulsion similar to yours now, perfected by Bill Benson,
and much more efficient; it does not destroy itself, either. One can be fittedeasily. We are visionaries, Mike, but not foolish ones." 

"What's all this 'Mike' business, anyway? Don't tell me I'm a Martian,
transformed somehow?" The calm use of that name was beginning to wear on hisnerves, coupled with the fatherly interest shown by the Martians. 

Burin Dator laughed, an obvious imitation of Earth emotions, but one that hadbecome natural to him. "Not at all, boy. I said we were far advanced in life-
chemistry. When Bill decided to stay here, he wanted a son, if our methodsworked as well as we claimed. We made nine failures, and one that was almost afailure, but we learned, and you're our eleventh attempt at exogenesis; I'mafraid it wasn't perfectly adapted for Earth life, since you've always shownsome peculiar features, but you're the ... ah ... foster son of Mrs. Benson." 

"And how'd I come to Earth then, carrying no memories with me?" 

"We'd promised your father before he died that you'd be returned, but we knewit was unsafe to trust a boy who knew nothing of his native planet, so we wereforced to remove your memory first. We hoped habits of thought and emotionswould develop a similar character in you, and that certain wordlesssuggestions we planted after the operation would bring you back, if possible.
It seems we were right, fortunately." 


"Can you give back the memory, then?" 

"No. It is final when performed, though we can show you records of your lifefrom its beginnings that are almost as good." Dator hesitated, glancing fromone to the other. "We hope, naturally, that you will remain with us when theothers go; they can explain it as lunar madness, how you walked away and werenever seen again. Mr. Swanson can pilot the ship back. You found him neardeath, of course, but saved by the fact he'd never left his ship. Something ofthat idea. But we need at least one representative from your planet toremain." 

Grey considered it slowly. Earth had never been particularly kind to him, afreak among normal men, and it was only here that he had found friends—Mrs.
Benson, Ralston, these Martians; perhaps even 

June Coney. Back there, they'd be swallowed in their work, and he'd be aloneagain. But— 

June broke in, settling the matter. "Of course we'll stay. It's the onlysolution." 

He jumped at her voice, swinging to study her face, but it remained calm. "We?
Naturally, I'm the one to stay, but you—" 

"Stick. That is, if you don't mind. I'm being honest, now. Here, you're a man,
and one that suits me under these conditions. Size doesn't count. On Earth,
I'd be ashamed to walk down the street with you. I'd erase you from my life sofast you'd never know what happened! But I'd rather not do that." 

Grey didn't care to think of it himself; maybe it was a lunatic world, butinsanity such as this was better than his normal life had been. He'd beenafraid to think of such things, even here, but now—"Do the Martians have someceremony, Dator?" 

Burin Dator nodded, beaming. "Indeed yes, or we have a copy of the Earth one.
In the morning, then, my engineers will fix your ship, and you can say goodbye 
to your friends. Tonight, after you phone them to attend, why not theceremony?" 

Alice Benson had eyes that were filled with a hunger that had already acceptedGrey as her own son. "That would be kind, Mr. Dator. And someday I'll be back.
This is my world. . . . What will you have for a wedding present, Michael?" 

It was his world, too, the only place where he fitted. But new world or not,
his emotions were finally flooding in on him, too fresh for him to expressadequately. It was June who answered, her grin somehow sweet, mocking thoughit seemed. 

"Cigarettes, Mrs. Benson. That boy gets more mileage out of a package thanyour rocket ever can." 

There's always a price to pay, it seems. Writing under extreme pressure takesabout ten times as much out of the writer as normal work does. If he knows 
that in advance and makes proper allowances for it, he can handle it by takinga couple of days to rest and not even looking at a typewriter, deliberatelyadjusting back to normal. But if he doesn't expect it, the results are muchworse. I found that I'd developed an extreme aversion against anything 


connected with writing, and that reaction lasted far longer than it shouldhave. Instead of accepting it and letting it drain out naturally, I madethings worse by trying to force myself back to writing. The result was a lotof pa


per on the floor and a good idea for a novelette ruined forever by the weightof the mistakes I made in trying to handle it. 

But I had enough money, and I found myself beginning to pick up odd bits ofchange in a couple of unexpected ways. The first was a direct result of thewar shortages that were developing in material and skilled labor. Peoplesuddenly couldn't replace the gadgets that stopped working, and it was hard toget replacement parts or find anyone to do the work. I discovered this whenthe toaster at the drugstore went on the fritz and wouldn't pop up. It wasn'thard to fix, once I found how to get the ornamental cover off, and it paid offin several free meals. Then a lovely little adding machine broke down, and Iwas called on to get that working. 

I've always enjoyed machinery. In those days I had a kind of rough-and-readyunderstanding of mechanics and electronics, but I depended more on a sort ofempathy for the machine. Years later I took the trouble to learn electronictheory thoroughly, but I really didn't know enough then to rewire sets for usewith substitute tubes. Nevertheless, when I finished with a radio, the darnedthing worked! Word spread from the drugstore to the neighborhood, and I got asurprising amount of repair work. I enjoyed it, too, because there is a lot ofsatisfaction in curing a sick gadget—though I'd hate to take it on as a full-
time occupation. 

Then there were pinball machines. At the time, in St. Louis, most of theplaces where they were installed would pay off the "free game" credits thatcould be accumulated. This was all new to me, and I couldn't resist. (Afterall, such devices were also gadgets!) To my surprise, I found that most ofthem were really games of skill—provided one studied them thoroughly first tounderstand exactly what could be done and took the time to master exactly howthey could be jiggled without tripping the "Tilt" sign. 

The drugstore didn't care who won, and the manager seemed to feel I wasentitled to special rights, as a regular customer and sometimes helpful handyman. So I usually got the benefit of the genuine free games racked up by theserviceman whenever a new game was installed. That gave me enough experiencewith the device to figure out the required strategy. Almost all of my eatingat that store was paid for by my winnings. 

Then the night manager at the hotel found I didn't mind taking over for him attimes, and a fair amount of my rent was credited to me for that. 

It's amazing how clever a writer can become at avoiding the need 

to write, and what excuses he can develop. It was true of me, and I sort oftook it for granted that it was something peculiar to myself. I've since foundthat it's a common occupational hazard. I don't know why that should be; itisn't laziness, since most of the tricks take far more time and effort thanwriting, and yield less reward. But so it is. Mayhe Campbell was right in hisanswer. "All writers are crazy," he explained. Then he went on: "Sciencefiction writers are crazier. Editors are crazier than the worst writers. And 
science fiction editors -well!" 


But I had a good rationalization for it all at the time, as usual. I wasworking on a series of stories about a man who was made accidentally immortal,
and a world that was badly wrecked in which he would be needed. I wouldn't dosequels again, but I'd figured out that a series which was meant to cover manystories from the very first inception of the idea was different. Maybe it is.
I never found out. 

But I did finally begin the series. War was in the air everywhere, and itnaturally colored everything I thought and wrote. So the story began when somedevastating war was happening in the future. I called the story "Conchy," butCampbell quite properly retitled it "Fifth Freedom." It ran for 8,000 words,
the absolute maximum length for a short story in Astounding. 

Naturally, I had to have a new pen name to separate the series from all theother stories I was going to be writing as it appeared. So "Fifth Freedom"
appeared with John Alvarez as the author. 

14. Fifth Freedom 
(by John Alvarez) 

—to be found in the final war of the twentieth century none of the lighterelements present to some extent in all former struggles. It was a grimlydetermined fight against extinction from the first few months. 

America presented the paradox of an absolute dictatorship 

with full popular approval, and there was no place in the public mind foranything but the maximum effort from each individual. Conscientious objectors,
while regarded as within their rights— 

"The Period of Discovery" Roget's History of Man, Vol. Ill 

Wearily, Tommy pulled the hard pillow farther under him, doubling it over inan attempt to find some support that would let him read in the dim lightwithout carrying his weight on an aching arm. But it was no use. The pillowoozed out from under him, letting him down again, and the arm trembled as ittook up the load. Soft living, without work and with his every want provided,
had left him without the stamina to stand up under the enforced grueling grindof the machine through the long ten-hour stretch, even yet. He was too tiredto harbor resentment against the government that had tagged him and probedhim, then ordered him out here into the labor camp, away from his comforts, todo such unskilled work as was required of him, along with a motley collectionof people of vague abilities and numerous reasons that made them unsuitablefor military service. 

War! Always and eternally, man went to war not only to destroy the aggressorsbut to ruin the lives of those whose only crime was a hatred of that war.
They'd taken his rocket plane for civilian patrol, filled the newspapers witha hysterical frenzy of hatred, and pressed his favorite music off the air tomake room for the propaganda of lust and savagery that seemed their glory; andthe little people around him, who'd mostly prayed against it, now seemed totake pride in it, and to talk of nothing else. 

He tried again to cut the blaring radio out, with its news and propaganda thatneither interested nor impressed him, but dinned remorselessly into his ears,
and turned back to the latest Astounding; it had arrived for him only today, 


and as yet he'd only glanced at the cover and readers' corner. Hopefully, hebegan on the cover Story: 

Major Elliot glanced up from the papers as the captain entered, nodded, andwent on reading through the reports. 

"Centralia's moving up; big offensive at midnight tomorrow, Captain Blake. Iwant you to take six volunteers—" 

Damn! The boy's lips tightened and he threw the magazine under his bunk, hisraw nerves whipped by the fresh insult; even there, war! 

All day, he'd been counting the hours and minutes until his shift went off andhe could find release from the horrible reality, only to find science fictionas filled with it as all else. He jerked the lumpy pillow up, threw his headagainst it, and tried to drown out the mutter of voices behind him and rest.
It was an hour yet until dinner, and perhaps in that time he could catch abrief nap. 

Under him, there was a rustle in the lower bunk, the thunk of a bag on thefloor, followed by the sound of the built-in locker being opened. Newcomer, hedecided, wondering whether to look down or go on minding his own business.
Then Bull Travis' voice cut in, already beginning to blur with the "smoke" heobtained somewhere. 

"Hey, Bub, there's a bunk tother side of the room. Whyn't you go over there?" 

"What's wrong with this one?" 

"Conchy on top, that's what! Sniveling 'cause Mamma isn't there to protectit!" 

"Thanks, but I'm not carrying this bag another step." Tommy looked over then,
surprised, to see a thin blond boy of about twenty-four packing his duffelinto the hamper under the bunk. Beyond him, Bull was staring at the kid with asour frown. 

"You a damned yellow conchy, too?" 

"Nope. Red card, they won't take me. But right now, I wouldn't care if a cobrahad the bunk over me." 

Bull grunted something, then started out to the washroom, where he hid hishooch. Tommy turned over again, the words burning into his brain. Conchy!
Conchy, damned yellow conchy! Was a conscientious objector any less of a humanbeing? 

To the others, he was; there was no question left on that score. Since he'dcome, there'd been only two civil sentences spoken to him, and both of thembefore the speakers knew he carried the little blue card of a conchy. Bullmight get drunk and beat up some weakened oldster, or swear all night in aprofane stupor, but he had four sons in the war; Tommy was only a thing thathad crawled among them to avoid doing his rightful part. And this was ademocracy! 

Eight months before, without even the warning of broken relations, Centraliahad struck westward suddenly, moving in viciously with heavy ground mechanism 


and new antiair guns, while the more peaceful nations had been expecting onlyan invasion from the skies. Seven months before, they had reached the Channel,
and the world 

beyond Europe had relaxed as their momentum slowed and came to an abrupt halt.
And America, as part of the Union, had declared war almost automatically,
while the people assured themselves that, with all the surprise element goneand no adequate air power, Centralia was a pushover. 

Then the radio blanket that cut off all communication with anyone less than athousand miles from Europe had dropped as a stunning surprise; ships carryingsupplies had gone into the blanket, and a few ships with neither supplies normen aboard had come drifting out, their superstructures melted away as if theyhad been sprayed with magma from the sun. Of the fleet of cargo planes thathad been trapped inside there was no word until two months later, when abattered little flitter had come zooming out of the morning mists to land atthe Washington airport. Two men were in it, one in American uniform, cryingsoftly to himself, staring at nothing until he died as they were moving him tothe stretcher; the other, obviously British, had disappeared with grim lipsinto an official car, and never been seen publicly again. 

But after that, the sudden hysterical drive began; there was no delay, nowaiting for public response this time. Every man, woman, and child had beenregistered, quizzed briefly, and told what to do —or else. For the fit,
military service in lightning schools; for those with skills, allocation inthe government-commandeered industries. And for the others, such decentralizedplaces as these plywood and scrap-material barracks, with the corrugated-ironworkshops around. Congress had uttered one great roar, before the gray-facedEnglish flier spoke to them in secret session; after that, a few Congressmenprobably continued to object—privately—but if so, they were snowed under bythe 95 percent who sat in session, passing bills with monotonous "Ayes."
Rather surprisingly, the people showed little resentment; most seemed morecheerful at the positive commands coming out of Washington, rather than less.
America had its dander up; that man in the White House was a real leader;
Centralia was shivering in its boots. Had they so much as moved out of theirblanket yet? No, sir, and they'd better not! Uncle Sam could take care ofhimself! 

Tommy's number had come up, and Tommy's mother had cried while his fatherlooked pleased, somehow; but not for long—not after he learned of Tommy'sinterview, and the man who had called to see his mother and doubtfully mailedback the blue card. His father had been grim-faced and silent, driving him tothe train that would take him to Workcamp 201 j-E. "Good-bye, conchy! Con


scientious!" He'd snorted at that, pulling out a ten-dollar bill. "That's yourinheritance; don't bother coming back, and don't write us!" 

And the wheels of the train had gone turning along, crying out, "Conchy,
conchy!" while he'd sat dry-eyed and anguished, filled with the horror of anypassion that could do that to his father, nursing his hatred of war doublyhard, to shut out his father's eyes and his weeping mother. Now, here he was. 

"Hi," said the kid's voice from under him. "This your magazine? Mind if I readit? I'm Jimmy Lake." 

"Go ahead." 


"Thanks. Want today's paper?" 

"Nn-nnh. I'm here as an objector. Didn't you hear Bull tell you that?" 

"So what? I'm here 'cause of polio. Bum leg, good enough to fly peace planes,
but they won't take me on now." Jimmy grasped the edge of the bunk over himwith tremendously strong hands and lifted himself easily, glancing at the bunktag. "Tommy Dorn, eh? No law against a man who figures his God won't let himfight. What's your religion?" 

Tommy pulled himself into a sitting position, his lips suddenly whitening. Theman at the board had asked the question in routine fashion, his father hadasked it bitterly, and he'd watched their eyes narrow at the answer. "It'ssort of a personal religion. I ... I just hate war!" 

There was no narrowing this time, though embarrassment showed faintly. "Oh.
Well, I think you're wrong, but it's your business. Sorry I butted in. Look,
do you—" 

"Ladies and gentlemen," blared the speaker across the room, and something inthe voice quieted all sounds there. "We interrupt this program to bring you aspecial bulletin. The President has just announced that two hundred 6-43 newmodel jet bombers have re-turned from a special mission over Centralia—
operation successful, casualties none! They approached Berlin at eightythousand feet—a mile over the useful range of antiaircraft guns—unloaded theirbombs, made recordings of the damage done, and returned with only one minorinjury. Berlin is reported to be a mass of burning wreckage. Further detailswill be broadcast as released." 

The room was roaring then, and Jimmy turned back, his eyes glowing in his paleface. "Lord! And they haven't the air fleet to come back at us." 

"No?" Tommy grunted; he might hate war, but even that hatred 

couldn't keep him from assembling the hundred little things he'd read andpieced together in a general love of scientific advance that included evenmilitary progress. "I suppose they didn't know we had the planes, didn'texpect all this? They were preparing for it ten years, after all! And probablythe city was just a dummy above ground, anyhow." 

"They haven't made a move—" 

"Didn't they wait after getting to the coast, only to make a sudden move withtheir radio blanket to cover it? ... Oh, stop it! I'm sick of it! Do we haveto talk war all the time?" 

A reek of liquor struck his nose suddenly, and he looked up to see Bull Travisstaring at him, contempt and hatred under the alcohol blur in his eyes. For asecond, the man hesitated, just as the dinner bell sounded; apparently itstopped him, for he joined in the rush toward the door. But all through themeal, his eyes were riveted on Tommy, and he was unusually silent. Beside theboy, Jimmy tried to make conversation, but the eyes across the table went onstaring, could be felt even when Tommy's face was turned away. 

Tommy felt better up on the top of the hill with the work camp behind him,
hidden by the bole of the tree against which he sank, breathing heavily fromthe long climb upward. Tonight there was a full moon, and there was always 


something soothing about the secret shadows and cool light of that, combinedwith the clean smell of dewy grass and trees. Here there was neither war norreminders of it; and nobody from the camp would invade his privacy. He pulledhis violin from its case, tucked it under his chin, and began playing,
improvising mostly. 

Slowly, the disharmonies smoothed down, the savage pace quieted, and the moodof the surroundings crept in to replace the jangle of nerves and bitterness.
Slow, clear music came then, swelling up softly, becoming more certain, andcarrying in it something that Tommy could not place, but could feel insidehim. His eyes roved down the hill, down to an old rock that stood out blacklyin the moonlight, and a path leading to it. A note of expectancy crept intothe music. 

Nine o'clock—and she always came at nine, sometimes with others, usuallyalone, to sit down there. He wondered vaguely what she was like in reality,
but his mind pictured her as a Diana in a gentle mood, stepping down from themoon in the cool of the evening. He'd wondered sometimes whether she'd heardhis playing, even dared to hope that it was part of her reason for coming.
Somehow, seeing her down there, pretending he was playing for her and 

that she understood, some of the loneliness left him and he could feel almosthappy again. Tonight, perhaps, she would be alone. 

But the quarter-hour came and went, and she had still not appeared; he stoppedhis playing to glance again at his watch, pulled the bow over the stringsagain, this time in mood music from Tchaikovsky, his eyes still on theclearing. 

"Really that bad?" The voice broke in, drawing a harsh discord from the violinas he jumped and swung about. She was standing slightly behind him, smilingfaintly, with the light of the moon on her face, and again he thought of agentle Diana. She was perhaps nineteen and cleaner-lined than the statues he'dseen of the moon goddess, but her face fitted his dream of it "I've heard youplay, and curiosity got the better of me. Mind?" 

He shook his head quickly, making room for her as she sank down beside him.
"I'm Tommy Dorn from the men's work camp down there. Was my playing so bad?" 

"Not bad; disconsolate." She looked at him curiously, seeing a medium-sized,
rather handsome boy, barely come of age. "What's the matter? Wouldn't theytake you?" 

He frowned, then grasped it. "No, it's not that ... if you must know, I'm a—
conchy! Because of personal religion, and because I loathe war!" He might aswell get it over and done with; sooner or later it was bound to come out,
anyway. 

"Oh." Understanding was in her tone. "I'm Alice Stevens, Tommy, stationed overat the women's camp." 

"Aren't you going to draw your dress back from me and run screaming away?" 

"Should I?" 

"Apparently. Two people can't be decent to a conchy on the same evening. It'sagainst the rules, or something." 


She laughed then. "You're even more bitter than your music, aren't you? I'lladmit it isn't quite the picture I had of you, but for all I knew you mighthave been an old worn-out fussbudget or a half-idiot, in spite of the music." 

"You're just what I thought you'd be!" He blurted it out, feeling ridiculous,
but impelled by the half-confession of her words. 

"Silly, isn't it, Tommy? Just because we're both lonely and away from home, Isuppose. Let's don't talk about it. Play something, and I'll just sit here andlisten and look at the moon. Play about the moon." 

"The Sonata or Claire de Lune?" 

"Neither—they're too conventional, somehow. See how our moon makes the grasslook like rippling water? Do you know Debussy's—" 

"'Reflections in the Water'? You do like music, don't you?" He caressed theinstrument to his chin, his eyes straining sideways toward her as he played,
feeling inspiration in his fingers. It was pantheistic music, fitting themagic of the moon and the trees, and the wind that stole up to brush her hairinto his face, so the faint perfume teased at his senses. 

"You'll come again—maybe?" he asked finally, when the music had led into talk,
and that had begun to die down as they found themselves yawning. "Tomorrownight, Alice?" 

She nodded, smiling at him, and then he had his violin case in his hands andwas going down the hill toward the work camp again; but behind him, he couldstill sense her presence, and looked back to see her watching him leave. Forthe moment, there was no room in his thoughts for either the war or thecontempt of the others. 

"Hello, punk!" The voice came thickly from a clump of bushes beside the trail,
and Bull Travis came out in front of him, weaving a little as he walked, hisshoulders hunched forward menacingly. "I been waiting for you. So Centralia'sgonna beat us, heh? Nice fifth columnist we got with us. You filthy little—" 

Futility rose up from Tommy's legs and constricted as a band about his chest,
and his stomach tightened inside him coldly. He backed away, feeling his tenseface muscles quiver as he opened his mouth, his mind already sensing theimpact of those threatening fists. "Look, now, Bull, I—" 

"Shuddup!" The fist lashed out then, with poor control, glancing against theinstrument case Tommy had thrown up wildly, knocking it aside and out of hishands. Bull advanced, and the boy tried to duck; he felt the impact againsthis face almost simultaneously with the ground striking the side of his head.
It wasn't exactly pain, just a dull giddiness that spread sickly through hiswhole body. 

Instinctively he came to his feet, somehow dodging another blow in a franticleap sideways, and trying to strike back. But the tenseness inside him ruinedhis reflexes and destroyed all co-ordination, leaving him hopelessly at themercy of Bull's drunken lunges. Another wild one connected, throwing him ontohis knees and ripping out a long patch of cloth and skin. 

It could have been only seconds the blackness fell over him; he reeled out of 


it to feel blood pouring down from his nose and to see Bull bending forward.
Then a shout came from somewhere, and Bull 

straightened while Tommy dragged himself to his feet and stared withoutcomprehension. 

Jimmy Lake covered the last few feet in an odd hobble, his left leg draggingbehind, his right pumping him along. Bull's eyes were on the crippled one, anda savage bark came to his lips as he moved forward. Something lashed out, avague blur in the moonlight, and Bull measured his length on the ground, tolurch up with pure madness in his voice and spring forward again. 

Somehow, without moving from his position, Jimmy let the wild swing slide by,
drawing his overdeveloped right arm back and measuring the distance coolly.
Then it struck forward, with the left coming behind it in perfect timing. Thistime, Bull lay where he'd landed, sprawled out like a rag doll droppedcarelessly. 

"All right, Tommy?" The cripple was breathing heavily, but that must have beenfrom the long climb up the hill; his face was composed, unexcited. "I heardBull was out for you and came up to warn you, but he beat me to it. Here, wipeoff some of that blood; it's almost stopped now. And sit down; you'retrembling like a leaf!" 

Tommy sat, sick with reaction from the fight, sicker with the shame that theother could see him like this, shaking, his face tear-streaked, his voicealmost out of control. "I'm all right. Thanks! I guess . . . you think—" 

"A pleasure, Tommy. I've run into his type before. For the rest, heck, I waspretty bad myself the first few times; you get used to it after a while. Neverhad to do much fighting, did you?" 

"No." He'd spent his time with his books and his machines, instead of out withthe kids who went yelling up and down the streets. Later, he'd becozened arocket plane out of his father and an expensive flying course that replacedthe sports of other boys. Hands and minds were to fight things—natural lawsthat said no when a man said I will—not other men. 

"Only once before." 

"Thought so. Think you can make it now? Good; and don't forget your fiddle."
They started back down, Tommy still nervously exhausted and shaky but tryingto mask it and keep up with the brisk pace the other set; running, he'd seemedhopelessly crippled, but the leg was strong enough for walking, awkward thoughhe looked. 

On a sudden thought, Tommy glanced up the hill, but there was no sign of her;
perhaps she'd left before Bull came out of the bushes. But he doubted it. Hetried to thrust the thought aside and listen to the rough instructions onself-defense the other was giving him. 

Surprised, hostile looks greeted them as they entered the bunk-house and movedto their double bunk, but the glances were only momentary and attention wentback to the radio. Jimmy caught his arm tensely, and swung him around to facethe speaker. 

"—too high to be seen. There goes another one; the building's shaking visibly 


under us! God, the people down there! This can't be explosives; they must haveatomic energy in those bombs! It doesn't stop, but goes on and on, heat boringthrough even the walls where I'm standing. They've stopped firingantiaircraft; too high, too fast. Some new type of plane. From the window,
then, I caught a glimpse of one in a searchlight, and it's big—has to be to beseen at that height! Almost no wings. Somewhere to the right, raw hell burstup then; building's coming down; now I can see it—just a blazing hole in theground, three blocks long, with fumes streaking upward. People blocks away,
trying to run to safety, dying under the heat—no, radiation, not heat!
Technical men here just got some instruments together and made readings.
Listen, Washington, here's the dope, if I live to pass it on—" 

Jimmy cut into the technical stuff that could hold no meaning to the averagelistener but might be all-important to scientists. "Why don't they cut off hisdescriptions before he ruins the country's morale?" He looked at the grouparound the speaker, shrugged. "No, maybe not. Maybe they're being smart. Makeanything of what he's saying?" 

"A little. It has to be atomic destruction," Tommy snapped. "And not U-235They've 
found a way to set off light elements—" 

The announcer wound up his report on instrument readings. "That's the best wecan give you, Washington. They can't precision-bomb from that height andspeed, but they're still at it. Sometimes flares show up miles away, sometimesthey hit the same place again. We're still untouched, but it can't be muchlonger. We've got a man on the roof trying to spot one falling toward us, butit won't do any good; the red light'll only tell us ... and it's on! Give 'emhell for us, Amer—" 

Surprisingly, almost no words were spoken by the grim group in the barracksafter the speaker gave its final sound—like a plucked string breaking in slowmotion. "Lights out!" someone said finally. "We've gotta -work tomorrow!" 

Tommy lay in the dark, tense and sleepless. His fight almost forgotten, thegreater fight— He'd been right; Centralia was prepared. But he'd never quitebelieved it himself, before. Finally he slept fit


fully, dreaming that Bull was beating him again while the announcer went ondescribing it and Alice stood by, shaking her head sorrowfully and binding himtighter with a long rope. Somewhere, the scene changed and Bull became the manat the registration center, shaking his head slowly while Tommy tried toexplain his objections and a steady stream of bombs rained down on the crowdoutside that was yelling for his blood, unmindful of the destruction fallingon them. 

Dawn was barely breaking when he was awakened. "Wanted in the front office,
Dorn," the messenger announced. "Make it snappy!" 

He tumbled into his clothes awkwardly, grunting as the cloth rubbed on soreplaces or his head moved, setting up centers of pain. Jimmy, under him, wasalso pulling on his work clothes. "Probably Bull kicked up some lie. I'll goalong to set it straight. Okay?" 

"Thanks, Jimmy." They stumbled out of the dark barracks and along the row ofone-story buildings, wondering what had gotten the director up at this hour ofthe morning. Inside the office, the messenger blinked sleepy eyes at seeingtwo, but pointed to a room at the right and went back to his coffee. It wasn't 


the director's office. 

"Thomas Dorn, registry 4784?" A gray-clad, grimly pleasant officer of the AirForce was sitting at the desk. "Good; and you?" 

"A friend of mine," Tommy answered. 

"Umm, okay; no time for arguing fine points—" He looked at Tommy's face, nowwell over normal size, and his eyebrows went up. "I thought you hatedfighting; we've got you down as a conscientious objector." 

"I do hate it—and this doesn't help it any." 

"Can't say I blame you there. Sure you're still objecting, or didn't you hearabout New York last night?" He noted the boy's curt nod, frowning slightly,
and picked up a sheaf of papers. "Well, that's none of my business, exactly.
We've got you listed as a rocket plane pilot, though, and that is. How manyhours, what type of plane?" 

"My own Lightning Special, late model—confiscated now. I guess I've had it upa thousand hours after completing full instructions. Why, sir?" 

The man's eyebrows went up and he whistled. "Wheeoo, your folks redly hadmoney! No matter; wish we had ten thousand with the same experience. Thoseplanes over New York were rockets. By sheer dumb luck we managed to get onedown in good shape, half its load still inside; keep that to yourself for acouple of days—with the blanket on, we're not being too careful about secrecy,
but there's no use spreading it before it's official. In two weeks, the waywe're or


ganized now, we'll be turning out better rockets; and better bombs, too.
Centralia isn't the only one with atomic explosives. She just used hers beforewe were quite ready with ours. Get the idea?" 

Tommy got it; his experience with the tricky rocket planes was in advance ofall but a few others, and his objection was for "reasons of personal belief,"
which was a borderline case at best. His lips set as firmly as the swellingwould permit, and the officer noticed the blanching of his skin. 

"To be frank with you, Dorn, I wouldn't take you; whatever your reasons, I'mafraid your mental attitude would make you worse than useless. But I can'tspeak for the higher-ups." 

Jimmy stirred beside him, coughing for attention. "I've had a littlepreliminary rocket training—all I could afford. Wouldn't that help, Sir?" 

"Sure, but... Oh, the leg! Afraid they haven't loosened up that much yet! I'llmake a bargain with you, though, young man; you get your friend to change hisideas so he'll be of some real use to us, and I'll see you get in, rules or norules. Okay, that's all; I've got a hundred other calls to run off and no timeto do it in. Back to barracks!" 

It was a lovely world, Tommy thought; when things began to look better and youfound someone who'd treat you like a human being, all this happened. Beatenup, probably made ridiculous to Alice, one mass of aching bruises, and nowthis! The sickness that had been in him during the fight had been worse on thesurface, but underneath it disturbed him far less than the half-threat of the 


officer's words. They couldn't take him into their war! And yet— 

"Well, start converting," he said bitterly. 

Jimmy shook his head, his eyes on the ground. "I'd give both legs for thechance, Tommy, if they cut 'em off an inch at a time; but I'm no good atproselyting. It's no use— Dammit, why couldn't we have swapped bodies? Whydoes everything have to be cockeyed for both of us?" 

Tommy had no answer, and his mind simply ran around in futile circles as thebreakfast was finished and the long grind at the machine began. He noticedcasually that Bull Travis chose another table and was unusually quiet, but thefact barely registered; the bully was no longer important, nor was thewearying, unaccustomed work. And under it all was the question of whetherAlice had seen the brawl the night before, and what her thoughts of him were.
Maybe he wouldn't go up there tonight. 

But night found him stopped beside the bush from which Bull had 

sprang, putting out a hand to his friend's arm. "Come on up if you want to,
Jimmy." 

"Thanks, no. I came up to be alone and do some thinking, and I guess you'll bebetter off without me. See you at eleven." He headed down a side trail,
whistling drearily between his teeth on one note, while Tommy went aheadalone, torn between hope and fear, with a dull lethargy numbing both feelings.
Anyhow, she probably wouldn't come. 

"Hello, Tommy." She was already there, ahead of him, and rose as he drew near.
"You're early, too, aren't you?" 

So she hadn't seen! Or had she? "How long did you watch last night?" 

"Long enough! Oh, Tommy, it was splendid! I was afraid at first, but when Isaw you knock him down the second time, I knew you were all right. I wanted torun down and tell you how glad I was, but I was afraid of being late at thebarracks. Your poor face!" There was pity in her look, but as he drew closerto her, her eyes were glowing proudly. He glanced back toward the spot,
realizing how easily she could have made the mistake in the tricky shadows ofthe moonlight. 

"I didn't do it. Jimmy Lake, the boy I mentioned, did that. And he's acripple!" 

"Oh." She said it without intonation. Then with a shrug: "I'm glad you told methe truth, Tommy. You didn't bring your violin?" 

"Broken." That had hurt, when he'd discovered it, more than the physical blowsto himself, and then had disappeared into the larger worries. "Broken, likeeverything else in the world!" 

"Come here, Tommy. Now—what's the matter?" She pulled him down beside her,
putting his head on her lap and brushing back his hair with soft, coolfingers. And, as there has always been, there was magic in it to draw out thetroubles and break up the barriers to free expression. She made soft littlesounds of sympathy and attention, but otherwise let him tell the story of themorning's interview, his fears, and everything else, without interruptions. 


Finally he stopped, and she considered it, her hand still moving softly. "Butdo you think it's fair, Tommy? I mean, under it all, you must realize thatwhether you fight or not, others will; aren't you counting on their fightingto protect you and your ideal? If there were no one else, wouldn't you have tofight? You at least tried to, last night." 

"I tried to run away, only he wouldn't let me! Alice, I can't rea


son with this; you can't. It's all inside me. Probably father was right, andit's cowardice that makes me act this way, not conviction; I don't know eventhat." 

"I wonder if a coward would have admitted it was Jimmy who beat up that bully?
Or would I feel this close to a boy I knew was a coward? . . . Someone shouldwhip that father of yours; he let your books do all the raising, and didnothing to help you understand the reality and solidity of the world—and thenquit you without trying to correct that when you didn't give him reason toboast to his friends. The fault's with his own selfish carelessness, not withyou. Tommy!" Her voice was suddenly urgent. 

"Uhh?" 

"I wouldn't worry about fighting. They'll need instructors more than fliers,
even. That would be all right, wouldn't it, and they'd be satisfied withthat?" 

It wouldn't—but the relief and gratitude her words brought shot through himlike wine, and pure impulse lifted his head off her lap and toward her; shebent forward to meet him, unquestioningly, and the uncertain awkwardness oftheir inexperience was half the sweetness of it. 

Jimmy approached them later, unseen until a twig crackled under his heavystep. "Tommy, it's eleven. Oh, sorry, miss. I thought—" 

"It's all right, really. I should have gone before. . . . Jimmy, isn't it? I'dlike to tell you what I think of you for what happened, but there isn't timenow." She was on her feet, glancing at her own watch, then leaning forwardhalf shyly for a brief good night. "Tomorrow, Tommy—and bring Jimmy if he'llcome." 

They watched her run down the trail to the old rock, waving as she glancedback before disappearing. Jimmy glanced at his friend, pleased surprise on hisface. "She's certainly done you a lot of good, fellow. You're lucky!" 

Tommy felt lucky, now. "More than you think, even. Funny how important thosebarracks and workshops appear in the moonlight; ours, too." 

"Yeah, I heard they were going to give them a coat of moon paint tomorrow.
They look too important, and after last night, nobody's so sure what's safe.
Come on, we'll catch the deuce if we don't hurry." 

It was a far-off, dim roar at first, coming forward much too rapidly and fromtoo high up. Their heads jerked up toward the cloudless sky. "Planes. . . theycan't be!" 

"Speak of Satan! Must be bound for Chicago! Picking 'em off in order of size. 


Tommy!" 

He'd seen it, too. A speck that separated from the others, cutting down andgrowing larger in a fishing streak that dipped, lifted slightly, and dippedagain behind them, the roar of its climb following. Something glinted over thebarracks roof, and then there were no barracks or workshops! Tommy droppedinto the depression beside them, dragging Jimmy with him and burying his facein the ground. But it was scant protection, and the lashing of light andthings not seen but felt reached out even to the two on the hillside, aradiation that seemed to burn through everything and was almost tangible; evenafter the first violence had abated, leaving only normal fires and heat behindamid the ruins, their bones and teeth seemed to itch, and their flesh totingle savagely. It must be mostly imagination; they'd escaped the worst ofthe radiation. Or maybe it was the effect of the ground shock. 

Jimmy came to his feet uncertainly. "Back! Up the hill! We're too close now,
and we can't get nearer. There's nothing left down there. Nothing. That seconddip must have been for the women's section!" 

"Alice!" Tommy's legs felt the weakness in them again, gone almost at once.
And then he was running, feeling nothing but a horrid numb urgency. Thehilltop seemed to crawl at him, and he was unsure whether he was running orfalling down the other side until his hand hit the boulder and tossed him offinto the side trail. Waves of heat radiation were beating at him, but he wasunaware of the danger as he careened down the pathway, almost stumbling overher before he could stop. 

"Alice!" 

"Tommy! I—help me! No, go back! This radiation—it's weaker now, but—" 

"Hush." His arms swung down under her, gently but rapidly lifting her to hisshoulder with a strength that came from outside him, and he turned back up thepathway, unmindful of fatigue or the laboring of his breath. There was a cleftin the rocks near the top where they'd be shielded from radiation on bothsides, and he headed for it as rapidly as he could force himself. 

Her face was grayish, pain-filled, already worse than it had been below, andshe was limp as he put her down. But she wasn't dead yet; her heart was stillfluttering as he jerked forward to listen, and he could hear the erraticgasping sound her breathing made. Minutes went ticking by as he stood staringat her, trying to remember the 

nearest doctor, torn between the need of staying and the urge to get outsearching for help. 

Jimmy's uncertain steps broke in on him, reminding him suddenly that he wasnot alone. "Bad?" 

"Where's the nearest doctor? She's got to have attention!" 

"Planes of some sort just spilled down as close to the women's camp as theycould get—must be medical aid there. Here, give me a hand; we can carry herfaster than we can bring them back. If we cut over the hill and around, we'llkeep out of the worst of the stuff coming out of there." 

"No." Tommy gathered her up, his mind steady again now that there was 


something he could do without leaving her. "Go ahead, Jimmy, start them comingback to meet me. I can carry her that far. Can you stand it?" 

"The leg'll hold up that far." He was off, his hands grabbing at theundergrowth to steady him, his clumsy leaps sending back crashing sounds tomark his path. Tommy started forward, considering a shortcut and rejecting it;
even if he could take whatever radiation was left, he dared not risk her init. Grimly he forced himself to a pace that he could maintain with his burden,
checking back the impulse to run, trying to take up all the bobbing of hissteps with his legs and avoid jarring her. 

The sound of the other's progress ahead dimmed out and vanished, eaten away bythe growing distance between them, and he pumped on stolidly, the skin aroundhis eyes tautened, his mouth pulled back into a tense, straight line. Underthe cold and numbness of his surface mind, a fever of thought trickled backand forth in time to his steps, sorting, rejecting, deciding. And step bystep, the hill crawled behind him, the undergrowth thinned out, and he was ina shallow ravine that led in the general direction of the three Air Forceplanes he had glimpsed off to the side of the flaming ruins of the workshop. 

Vaguely, he wondered at the speed with which they'd learned of the disasterand come out in a hopeless effort to help. But the thought and the relief attheir presence were lost in the shuffle of his feet, the tick of thoughts inhis head, and the leaden ache that was creeping up his arms and shoulders fromthe burden he carried. He bent forward for the hundredth time, found her stillbreathing, and went on woodenly. 

Crackling twigs gave warning, but only seconds before he saw the men withstretchers coming toward him at a slow trot. "Down here 

. . . that's it. All right, you men, gently but snap into it! And you, kid,
get onto the other one! If you walk another step, you'll be a hospital caseyourself!" 

Tommy let them lay him on it, not bothering to protest; now that thecompulsion was gone, his muscles were slack, his breath rasping in his ears,
and his mouth dry and burning. For the moment, there was nothing he could do,
and his body grabbed hungrily at the chance to rest on the swaying canvas,
though there was no relief for his mind. 

Jimmy found him later, his own face drawn with the fatigue of his efforts, andsank down onto the log. "What news?" 

"They don't know; this is all new, it seems. They've had experience only withlaboratory cases." They'd taken her inside the big hospital plane, turning himback with gentle but firm words and a promise to call him as soon as theycould. Now all he could do was sit and wait, trying to hope in spite of thelooks they'd given her. "I appreciate—" 

"Skip it, Tommy!" 

The sound of another step brought their eyes up, and Tommy was looking intothe face of the Air Force captain who'd interviewed him that morning—seemingyears ago. The man put a hand on his shoulder, sliding down onto the logbeside him. "That took guts, Dorn! I guess I owe you an apology for what I wasthinking. Mind my talking?" 


"No; go ahead, sir." He wouldn't mind anything that would fill the time andtake even a little of his mind off what must be happening inside the plane. "Ididn't expect you here, though." 

"Handiest pilot when we heard of this! At that, there's been nothing we coulddo to help. And we'll forget that 'sir' business; you're not military. Thename's Kent. Seems they got Chicago." 

"Already?" 

"Those things travel! Tomorrow, or tonight, we'll actually get startedevacuating all the large cities, I suppose, but we need a miracle to hold themoff two weeks more. Maybe, if—" He dropped whatever he had in mind. "You'dhate an automatic commission for your air hours, you know, Dorn." 

"I know . . . Captain Kent, she—in there—suggested I might be valuable to youas an instructor." He shook his head as the other started a quick assent. "Butit would be the same thing, killing or teaching others to kill. I can't doeven that." 

"Then all this hasn't changed your mind?" 

"No. Maybe you were right, and cowardice had something to do 

with it at first, but there was more than that." He couldn't put it intowords, the thought that had worked itself out as he'd walked down the hill,
and he made no particular effort. "At first, I guess I'd wanted to kill forwhat they'd done, but that's gone now. Killing isn't right, and hatred doesn'tmake it more so." 

"Umm. 'An eye for an eye'—all right, that's Old Testament; how about Matthew?
'I come not upon Earth to send peace, but a sword-'" 

" 'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.' It won't do any good,
Captain. Coming down from there, I wanted to convince myself I should fight. Icouldn't." 

Captain Kent nodded thoughtfully, passing a cigarette across to each of themas he turned it over in his head. "Ever seen a robin go after another birdmenacing its nest? It's pretty much a law of nature that life will kill todefend its own; maybe you don't have relatives in danger—but there's thegirl." 

"Is bombing women and children over there a defense?" 

"I think so. Time after time, the tribal pride—the pride of the Holy RomanEmpire of the Teutonic Tribes, whose legate walked before kings—has broughtthis about. Doesn't something pretty drastic seem justified against thoserepeated assaults on the freedom of others?" 

There was neither stubbomess nor agreement on Tommy's face as he shook hishead silently, and the other shrugged faintly, admitting defeat. The three satin silence, studying the ground or the door to the hospital plane, each withhis own thoughts, each with a cigarette unnoticed in his hand. Tommy sighedslowly; somewhere, in his emotional mind, he'd been begging to be convinced ofthe other's tightness, but the arguments were too old to offer any hope. 


Above them, there was a low muffled drone that grew into a thunder with aspeed that could mean only one thing. The captain's eyes came up first,
spotting the bluish streaks that split the sky miles above the earth and cameroaring back from the horizon. "Damn them! They think we're helpless—sohelpless they're coming back over our defenses deliberately, just as they wentout! Now, if—" 

With a sudden short cry, he grabbed at the arms of the two others, jerkingthem back toward the distant ravine, his eyes still turned on the spot of bluefire that came slipping out from the others, downward toward them, cutting themiles in fractions of seconds. Then he stopped, realizing the uselessness offlight. "My God! They've spotted our planes in the glare of that ruin! Whatdamned fools we were!. . . No, listen!" 

Another sound had cut in, even over the roar of their rockets, higher,
shriller, and a streak seemed to shoot off the ground near the horizon andhalve the distance in the time it took their eyes to focus, knifing aside theair with a shrill whine. Two others followed, apparently spotted by theCentralian force, for the rocket that had been diving reversed in a thunderingblast toward the others. Three streaks moved in toward the group of a hundred,
spreading apart as they came, while Centralia's craft bunched and began agigantic circle to bring them face to face. Somehow, the maneuver was a slowwheel of contempt for the trio that dared to question their right to thestratosphere. 

Kent's voice was awed and proud, ridiculously hopeful in spite of theodds/They did it! They couldn't, but there they are!" 

"Atomic rockets?" Jimmy's voice held the same awe. 

"Yes. We've licked the inflexibility of mass production; we knew that. But Istill don't see how they did it. This morning, those were standard fuelrockets, and the atomic tubes were just coming off the drafting boards. Theycouldn't shape them—" 

His voice choked back as one of the three vanished in a huge sheet of firethat seemed to run across the sky, long before the sound could reach them fromthe distance. Kent groaned, understanding coming into his eyes. 

"They didn't. They've simply jury-rigged the tubes from the captured ship intothree of ours; God knows what kind of wire they're using to hold those enginesinside our ships. That's what they were talking about, then! No wonder theymove like that; they don't weigh a quarter of what those tubes were designedfor. And inside, they must be packed with our own atomic bombs." 

"The explosion-" 

Kent waited for the roar that had finally reached them to cease. "No, ourbombs are stable, except when we set them off; that was the rocket enginesmashing up." 

Tommy struggled with the idea, his eyes trying to follow the specks that wereedged toward the side horizon, almost out of sight. "But what can bombs doagainst them?" 

"Watch!" Even as he spoke, they could just make out the two flares of theirown remaining ships suddenly streaking forward into the thick of the enemy 


swarm. This time, the spread of flame flickered slightly, but they were forcedto cover their eyes before it reached full intensity, and when they lookedagain there was only 

an empty sky with a few streaks still falling toward the flames that seemed toshoot up from the ground, just out of sight. 

"Suicide squad!" Jimmy's face gleamed, as did the captain's, washed with toomany emotions for understanding. 

"That's it. Somehow, before the rather slim defense of the others could getthem, ours got close enough; their bombs were unstable— when ours were set offnear them, it spread. Well, there's our miracle; they can't have had time tobuild more than those we saw, and those are ... well, 'with the snows ofyesteryear,' I guess it goes. That gives us the two weeks we need. My darnedluck!" 

His face twitched into a crooked smile at their looks. "The rocket men had a 
lottery this noon for some special volunteers to get themselves killed off ona forlorn hope. The three up there won it. If I'd had another hour, I mighthave talked one into selling his chance-maybe. Dorn?" 

"Yes, sir." They were back on the log that served as a bench again, where hecould watch the door of the big ship, and he answered without moving his eyes. 

"The higher-ups gave me full authority to do as I liked about your case and afew others; I was going to tell you before all this came up. I'm sending youto a carnp out in the Middle West where you'll be with a bunch of otherunquestioned objectors; you'll probably be better off there than in any of thework camps around here." 

It took a few seconds for that to penetrate. "You mean you aren't going toforce me to fight?" 

"We don't force people here, fellow, not when they're on the level. Look, thenurse wants you. Go on, and I hope it's good news." 

The nurse shook her head faintly as he ran toward her, motioning him back intothe ship and toward the cot. Alice was lying there, her eyes open and on him,
and with the medical staff gathered at the opposite end of the plane. Thechange in her face, even from what he'd last seen, was frightening, but asmile lifted the corners of her mouth weakly. "Tommy!" 

"Alice! You'll be all right? You've got to be!" 

"Shh!" She caught his hand with a feeble movement, drawing him closer. "It'sno use; I can feel myself going. Tommy, you're not afraid now! I can see it—
that and other things. It's all going to work out right, isn't it?" 

"Everything except you!" He could see the shadow on her face, knew theuselessness of anything doctors could do, and knelt down 

to the cot, cradling her head into his arms, feeling the need of tears thatcould not come, his soul wrenched half out of him toward her. 

"Don't feel bad for me, honey. I don't." But pain came shooting over her then,
cutting off her bravery, flooding into her expression with nothing either 


could do to stop it. She gasped harshly, clinging to him, fighting futilely.
"Tommy? I don't want to die—when I've just found you. Don't let me die! Kissme quick, Tommy, before—" 

There was time enough for that, mercifully, and mercifully no more. Dry-eyedstill, he groped his way out of the ship, blurred landscape reeling beforehim, until Jimmy's hand found his arm and guided him silently to the log. Hisgrief was cold and hard inside him, unexpressible outwardly. Then, as theminutes dragged on, the waves of it washed slowly further into his mind,
colder and harder than evef, but leaving him free to grope through the jumbledideas that had been forming. 

He should have told her, perhaps, yet somehow she'd known. He'd seen theknowledge on her face, before the pain forced it away. 

"We don't force people, here." Over there, they did—forced them or shot them.
Now, for the first time since it had begun, he was free, free from thecompulsion to fight against their intrusion into his rights and belief, freeto take the facts as they came, without the taint of oppression. And thedecision had come to him, almost with the freedom, so that it must have beenon his face, visible to her. Knowledge had been in her look^knowledge andpride in him. 

"What happened to the captain, Jimmy? Has he gone?" 

"Not yet. Why, pal?" 

Maybe it wasn't logic. It didn't sound logical to fight and protest for hisrights until they were given to him, then toss them away. Or maybe it was thehighest kind of logic, the kind that could find the real value of the factsand realize that a country where your freedom not to fight was respected was acountry worth fighting for, so that those who came after could hate thatfighting without seeing it swarm over their lives again. Men had always had tofight for their beliefs, even the belief that fighting was wrong. Maybe thetwo sayings from the Bible didn't contradict, after all. He came not uponEarth to send peace, but a sword; until the meek should inherit the Earth,
someday. 

He got to his feet then, Jimmy at his side, and started after the captain. "Ijust remembered that he agreed to take you if you convinced me, Jimmy. I thinkwe'd better remind him of it." 

My original plan was that the young man in the story was to have becomeimmortal as a result of the radiation he received. (Such miracles were notuncommon in science fiction.) He was next to appear in a story near the end ofthe war, hardened and bitter, to begin finding his way through a very uglyworld. I had a set of changing cultures mapped out, with him as the onlyunchanging thing in the world, culminating with it all about to start overagain when Mars and Earth begin the first interplanetary war. 

But I never went on. Series, so far as I was concerned, were no different fromsequels. I couldn't work up much interest in a character after I'd mined hisemotions once. 

About all I can say in defense of the story now is that it's the first one Iknow which emphasized the radiation danger of a nuclear bomb more than themere blast effect. But I grossly underestimated the dangers, I'm afraid. 


Science fiction writers were generally pretty well aware of developments inatomics up to the beginning of the war. And quite a few of us could makepretty shrewd guesses about what was going on, based largely on the verysecrecy blanket that was supposed to fool us. One tip-off came when the FBIbegan investigating a story by Cleve Cartmill which gave a rough descriptionof the trigger of the bomb. (It was a big secret—so big that several of us hadindependently figured how it had to work.) They even questioned Paul Orban,
who'd illustrated the story. But Campbell was successful in convincing theinvestigators that cutting off stories about atomic power in science fictionwould blow the secret much more completely than any fiction could, so we had agood deal of freedom after that. 

My own story, "Nerves," dealt with industrial atomics, quite different fromthe work on the bomb. Yet, according to a scientist who worked at Oak Ridge,
the story was classified and filed as "Top Secret." She discovered this whenshe went in to read that issue in the library and found that her clearancewasn't high enough to permit her to have it. So, of course, she walked outsideto a newsstand and bought her copyl 

I was a little disappointed when the September issue appeared with the story.
I'd been pretty sure that I'd get the cover. But instead, that was devoted toa time travel story by Anthony Boucher, who later became editor of TheMagazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. But it all worked out well in thelong run. The readers voted a straight 

i.ooo rating bo "Nerves," which meant that they'd been unanimous in placing itfirst in the issue. (I can remember only one other story winning that kind ofpraise.) It should have proved to me that the careful method I'd used inwriting it was the right one for me, but I still haven't quite learned that.
The story was usually picked as my best by readers, and many still choose it.
In 1956, I finally added some of the material I'd had for my background andturned it into a novel for Bdlantine. It's now being reprinted again. And TonyBoucher demonstrated what a marvelous gentleman he was by telling his side ofour contest for first place, saying that the best story had won, and thengoing on to give the book a most generous review. 

"Lunar Landing" didn't fare so well. There was sort of a running battle amongfour novelettes in that issue, and none seemed to emerge as clear winner. Ithink mine placed third, eventually. At that, the readers may have been beinggenerous, since some of the other stories were excellent ones. 

CampbelPs letters began to be a little more insistent about why I should writemore at that time. A lot of his best writers were either in the Armed Forces 
or doing some kind of war work, with little time to write. He was turning upnew talent—but much of that new talent was soon also pulled away by the war.
He needed all the work he could get by his regulars. 

He was also worried that he might be drafted into some war activity and washinting pretty broadly that I would have a very good chance of taking over forhim if I'd be a good boy and turn out a lot of copy to impress the frontoffice. I was immune to that bait, however. Most writers seem to have acompulsion to become editors, but I never wanted that sort of work. I didbecome an editor about ten years later—with four magazines under my variouspen names; but I took the job reluctantly and quit most happily. I can editcompetently, but I'll never be half the man for the job that Campbell was, andI don't enjoy doing anything half well by my own standards. 


I finally did write a short story for him when he insisted. And that was theresult of pure inspiration. 

I've heard a lot about inspiration, but seldom from regular writers. Yetapparently it can hit at rare intervals. I didn't really believe in it untilit hit me. 

I was going out one night to get a hamburger. My foot was just on the top stepof the stairs. And somewhere between there and the 

bottom, a total story popped into my mind, complete with how I wanted to tellit, the feeling of it, and everything. I went out and had my snack, and it wasstill there when I came back. So I pulled my typewriter out and wrote it—4,300words in less than an hour and a half, and almost no work! I called it "Whomthe Gods Love," and it earned a bonus. 

15. Whom the Gods Love 
(by Lester del Rey) 

At first glance, the plane appeared normal enough, though there was no reasonfor its presence on the rocky beach of the islet. But a second inspectionwould have shown the wreckage that had been an undercarriage and the rows ofholes that crisscrossed its sides. Forward, the engine seemed unharmed, butone wing flopped slowly up and down in the brisk breeze that was blowing,
threatening to break completely away with each movement. Except for the creakand groan of the wing, the island was as silent as the dead man inside theplane. 

Then the sun crept up a little higher over the horizon, throwing back theshadows that had concealed the figure of a second man who lay sprawled outlimply on the sand, still in the position his body had taken when he made thelast-second leap. In a few places, ripped sections of his uniform showed themark of passing bullets, and blood had spilled out of a half-inch crease inhis shoulder. But somehow he had escaped all serious injuries except one;
centered in his forehead, a small neat hole showed, its edges a mottle of blueand reddish brown, with a trickle of dried blood spilling down over his noseand winding itself into a half moustache over his lip. There was no mark toshow that the bullet had gone on through the back of his head. 

Now, as the warmth of the sun crept down to the islet, the seemingly deadfigure stirred and groaned softly, one hand groping up toward the hole in hisforehead. Uncertainly, he thrust a finger into the hole, then withdrew it atthe flood of pain that followed the mo


tion. For minutes he lay there, feeling the ebb and flow of the great forcesthat were all around him, sensing their ceaseless beat with the shadow ofcuriosity. Then his eyes opened to see the flapping wing of the plane, and henoticed that it was outside the rhythm of the forces that moved. His eyesfollowed its outlines, then pierced through the pitted covering and made outthe form of the corpse within. 

It lay sprawled there, stiff and rigid, and within it was none of the smalltrickle of energy that coursed through his own body. Yet there was somethingfamiliar about the still form. A vagrant whim of his mind caused the corpse topull itself around with one stiff hand until he could see its face—or rather, 


what had been its face. Then, after comparing it with his own, he found noresemblance and let the body slide back into silence. About him the littleeddies of force resumed their routine, no longer perturbed by the impulsesthat had gone out of his mind toward them. 

He turned his head then, glancing over the little island and out toward thesea, wondering if all the world was like this. It seemed empty and not alittle ridiculous, but there was nothing to show otherwise. He wonderedvaguely whether he had come there newly or had always lain there; and afurther wonder came to him as he looked at the plane again. It was out ofkeeping with the rest of the island, and since its type was different, heassumed that it had come there from elsewhere. Inside it, the corpse remindedhim that it had not come alone. Well, then, probably he had come with it.
Perhaps the still figure inside would stir to life under the rays of the sun,
as he had. He clutched at the passing forces again, twisting them in a way hedid not understand, and the limbs of the dead man lifted him and brought himout into the sunlight on all fours. 

For minutes, the living man stared down at the other figure, but tired of itwhen he saw no signs of warming into life. Perhaps he was an accident and theother was the normal form of his kind. Or perhaps the other had offended theforces around and they had drained themselves out of him. It was of noimportance. 

Again he looked upward, watching the dancing paths of the light from the sun,
and as he bent his head the wrong feeling inside it grew greater. Slowly helifted his hand, but that motion caused none of the racing pain, so it was notthat movement itself involved the feeling. Perhaps it was the hole in hishead. Gently with his fingers he pressed the edges of the hole together,
drawing the skin out over it until it was healed; it helped the little surfacepain, but made 

no change in the inner agony. Apparently the forces of life were painful—nomatter, then; since the pain was obviously a part of him, he must accept it.
Noting the tear in his shoulder, he forced that closed again with his fingers,
then glanced back at the sky. 

Above, a bird wheeled slowly over the sea, and he watched it move, noticing init the same stirring life that he sensed in himself, but without the awarenessof the forces about. On an impulse, he willed it to him, reaching out as thelittle form slipped down and forward. Behind it came a crack as the airexploded back into the hole its passage had torn; the bird was a sodden massas he felt it, warm but inanimate, and he tossed it aside in sudden disgust. 

And still the wing of the plane flapped awkwardly in the wind, and his eyesslid back to it again, his mind remembering the beat of the bird's wings. Hereeled toward it, his steps uncertain, until the effort displeased him and helifted himself upward on the waves around him and slipped forward easilytoward the plane. Vague memories stirred in his head, and his thoraxcontracted in a strange yearning feeling toward this great dead bird. It waswounded also, and its head was filled with a strange rock that made itsluggish. Gently he pulled out the engine, first causing the bolts and holdingpart to drop away, and put it aside on the sand; his eyes went to the guns,
but the little eddy of memory told him to leave them, and he obeyed, though hepulled away the landing gear and tossed it beside the engine and brokenpropeller. One by one he pressed the holes in the sides together and let thebroken skin of the wing grow back, as his shoulder had done. The other wing 


was stiff, paralyzed, apparently holding the machine down by its uselessness,
so he looked inside to find it filled with unjointed struts; with his elbowfor a model, he corrected the error in the machine, standing back in approvalas that wing also began moving gently up and down. 

There had been no purpose in his actions beyond an idle kindliness, but now heconsidered the plane and the bleak sea and sky beyond the islet; over thehorizon lay other lands, perhaps, since the bird had come from that direction.
And out there might be others like himself who could explain the mystery ofexistence. Surely there was a reason for it, since the mothering forces of thecosmos about him were moving purposefully, in ordered pattern, except when hiswill disturbed them. And since he could mold them, surely he was greater eventhan they, and his purpose must be higher. He started to rise and glideforward on the wings of those forces, but the plane below him called him back,
filled with an odd desire for it. It, too, 

seemed to want to leave, and he let himself drop inside it, down onto the seatthat was before his eyes. Then, responsive to his desire, the forces eddiedinto it, the wings lifted resolutely and beat down together, and it lifted upand away, the little island dropping from sight behind him. 

But as his attention wandered, it fluttered unevenly and began to fall,
calling him back to the need of supervising. That should not be so. Oncebegun, the plane was supposed to go ahead on its own— memory assured him ofthat. And obediently the forces slid back, gliding over the surface of theship, becoming a part of it. This time, as his mind wandered, the wings beaton in a smooth rush, the plane answering without thought to his uncertaintwist of the wheel. That was better. His arms made movements on the controls 
almost instinctively, and now the ship obeyed them, its passage silent exceptfor the keening of the air as it forced its way ahead. 

He sent it up higher and still higher, but below him the sea stretched out inseeming endlessness. Finally his breath began to come hard, and the air tothin out, though the forces grew thicker and stronger. For a little while helet them push against the air inside the cabin to thicken it and climbed on,
but increasing height began to make objects hard to see below, and he droppedback, returning to his straight line. The needle on the compass pointed duenorth. 

The sun was in the middle of the sky when the vague feeling inside him broughtvisions to his mind, and he recognized the need of food. There were severalmental pictures, some sharp, some vague, and he selected an apple and hamsandwich at random, solidifying the pictures of them and eating. The firstbite was flat, tasteless stuff, but his senses recognized the error and hismind brought the cosmic forces into play, correcting them as he chewed. Theother urge was heightened instead of removed, but it was an hour later beforehe recognized it as a need of water and drank deeply from the fountain thatappeared for a time over the wheel. Later, the empty cigarette package on thefloor caught his eye and he rilled it, along with the bottle that had heldbrandy. With his needs satisfied, he settled back, letting the ship forgelazily ahead. 

A thousand feet below him, the water stretched on in apparent endlessness, buthe was in no hurry. Aside from the pain in his head, the world was good, andthat had become so much a part of his thoughts that he scarcely noticed it.
The sun crept down slowly toward the horizon, slipping through the few cloudbanks. 


Something about that awakened a half memory in him; the sun was partly in theclouds, just touching the water, and sending out streamers of light. Somewherehe had seen that before, and a savage snarl came into his throat instinctivelyas his hand went up to the place where the hole had been in his forehead. Asun with fixed rays from it, painted on something—and a thing to be hated! Hepinned the idea in his memory as darkness began slipping over the ocean, andhe brought the ship to a stop, letting its wings hold it motionless over thesea. With the coming of night, there was no purpose in continuing his search,
but he'd remember that banner if he found it during the day. In the meantime,
he chose to eat and drink again, then curl himself up in the air and go tosleep. 

It was a sharp spattering sound that brought him out of his sleep and sent himfalling toward the floor of the cabin before he could catch his thoughts. Thenanother burst of sound came rushing toward him, and the sides of the shipsuddenly sprouted a series of holes like those he'd removed the day before,
while metal slugs shot by over him. With an action governed by sheerconditioned reflex, he was up and into the control seat, wheeling the shipabout before his mind had evaluated the situation. 

Ahead of him now appeared five ships of somewhat different design, all comingin sharply toward him. With part of his brain he deflected the all-pervadingforces, cutting off the rain of bullets by denying to himself their ability toreach him or the ship. With the rest, he was trying to understand and failing.
In the thoughts of the little olive men out there he could read hatred andfear, and a desire to kill, though he had done nothing against them. Then thegently fluttering wings of his ship beat down savagely in response to hisdemands and threw him forward toward them. 

Horror sprawled through the thoughts of his enemies, superstition accompanyingit. For a split second, they sat glued to their controls, eyes focused on hisbeating wings, and then they lifted as one man and went streaking up and away.
As they passed, he saw the device of the sun and rays on the planes, and thehatred he'd felt before welled over him, driving back all voluntary thought.
The wings of his plane beat harder, drumming the air in resounding beats, butthe ships were back at him again before he could rise, superstition stillstrong, but the desire to kill stronger. 

Then his eyes lit on the gun controls, and memory stirred again, telling himthat death came from such things. He gripped them fiercely, but nothinghappened! With a frown, he tried again, then 

drove his vision down and into the weapons to find there were none of thelittle metal slugs that should be there. And the shadow of memory reminded himthat they had all been used before, when he'd been forced down onto the littleisland by such men as these. They— 

The clouded mind refused to go on, but the hatred stirred and writhed insidehim, even while the bullets came spattering toward him, broke against thebarrier he still held, and went hurtling down uselessly. Then one of the otherships came swooping forward, straight toward him, its purpose of ramming himplain in the enemy's mind! 

The guns must work! And then they were working. Little blue lights collectedin drops and went scooting out toward the end of the guns, to streak forwardin a straight line. He brought the sights up on the hurtling ship, and blue 


fire sped forward to meet it, to fuse with it, and to leave the air empty ofboth plane and light, only a thunderous sound remaining. 

It was too much for the sons of the Rising Sun. A roar came from their motorsand they dived under him, heading south in a group, the tumult of theirpropellers pitched to their highest limit. But he had no intention of lettingthem get away; they had attacked him without warning, and they must pay. 

His wings were beating the air savagely now, and he let the ship jerk aroundon its tail, heading after the four ships. The hate in his mind gripped at theforces about, driving him forward in a rush that left a constant clap ofthunder behind him as the air came together again in his wake. But he hadlearned from the crushed bird, and held a cushion of air with him to save hisship. Then the four remaining ships were before his sights again, and thelittle blue drops coalesced and ran down the barrels to go scooting forwardhungrily. The air was suddenly clear ahead of him. 

Still his wings drummed on furiously. They had turned south, and in theirminds had been pictures of others of their kind in that direction. Very well,
he would find them! At thirty thousand feet he leveled off and solidified ayoung roast turkey and a glass of water, but his face was grim as he ate, andhis eyes were leveled at the sea below. The things he had seen in the mind ofthe enemy officer had been reason enough for their elimination, enough withoutthe knowledge that there were others of his kind somewhere whom these littleyellow men were killing and torturing, still others toward whom they weremarshaling their might. 

The blue drops of light ran together and formed into a bigger ball 

at the muzzle of one gun as he thought. Finally the ball dropped, jerkingdownward at a speed beyond the pull of gravity, and the ocean spouted up tomeet it, then fell back in a boiling explosion that sent huge waves thunderingoutward. He paid it no attention, and the waves fell behind. 

The last of the turkey was still in his fingers as he spied them below andnear the horizon—a swarm of midges that must be planes, and below them largerobjects that pushed over the water and left turbulent paths in the sea. Therewere many of them, moving slowly ahead, with the swarm of planes spread out tocover a great distance around them. He wasted no time in counting, butclutched the controls and sent his ship down in a swooping rush that broughtthe planes before his sights. The blue light gathered and went ahead, and hewas rushing on through the space the enemy had occupied, questing for more. Atfirst they were kind, and rallied into a group to meet him, but those thatwere left were wiser. 

He swung in a great circle, taking them as he could find them, hoping that hecould get them all before the last could disappear from his sight. Those thatdropped down frantically toward the surface vessels below he disregarded, andseeing that, the others dived. It was a matter of minutes until the air wasclear, except for the larger missiles that came arching up from the craft onthe sea. 

One found him, and it carried more force than the bullets for which his shieldwas designed. He had only time to deflect it, and to throw a band of forcearound it before it exploded. Then it was gone, leaving a gaping hole on eachside of the cabin, a couple of feet behind him. He knew that no shield hecould control would protect him long against any great quantity of such, and 


lifted his wings upward, rising rapidly and collecting a reservoir of airabout him to meet his needs in the level toward which he was climbing. 

The vessels below were scattering now, and he noted staccato bursts of a waveforce coming from them, but it was harmless and he guessed that it was somekind of signal. The air about was filled with that force, too, though muchweaker than the ships were sending out, but it seemed of no other use. Hedisregarded it, continuing up until sixty thousand feet stood between him andthe ships under him. 

Then he tilted the nose of his plane, bringing it downward, and hung suspendedwhile he let the blue light collect. From this height the sights were useless,
but there were other ways of controlling it; as each globe grew to the desiredsize, he released it, guiding it down 

with his mind, stopping it above the ships, and directing it toward the one hehad chosen as a target. Even at the distance he remained, the chaos of terrorbelow reached up to him, and he grinned savagely. There was some unknown debthe owed them, and he was paying it now. Ships were foundering in the wavesthat leaped from the disappearance of others, but he gave no heed to theircondition as the blue globes dropped downward. And at last, reluctantly, hedropped to search for more prey and found them gone, except for two smallboats that had been lowered and had mysteriously not been harmed. In them theoccupants were dead; the cosmic forces he had used were not too kind to livingflesh when out of control, even at a distance. They were powers that moldedsuns. 

Perhaps there were more targets ahead. He had had no time to glean informationfrom their minds, but there was a chance, and he went on winging south, thoughmore slowly, relaxed at the controls. His head was numb and heavy now, and hewas covered with sweat from the efforts of the past half hour. He knew thatthe energy he used was only a weak and insignificant thing, a faint impulse inhis mind that reached out and controlled other forces which in turn modulated 
the great forces of the universe; they alone could yield the energy needed.
But even the tiny catalytic fraction he supplied had drained him for themoment. And the pain in his head was worse. 

A sudden flood of the signaling energy came to him then, and he grinned again;
so it had been signals, now being answered! Much good it would do them. Theycame from the north this time, and he hesitated, but decided to go on. Ifthere was nothing in this direction, he could turn back. 

The sea was barren of surface craft, and the air was empty. Now, though, hewas passing near islands at times, but he saw no signs of enemy flags there,
and chose not to search for them through the jungles that covered them—thatcould wait until later. He lifted back upward to twenty thousand feet and wentonward. And more islands began to appear, stirring uncomfortably at his mind,
pushing the beginnings of pictures into his consciousness. Below, dots movedon the ocean, and he started down grimly, blue forming on his guns. Then aneddy of thought from them reached his mind, and he hesitated. Those were notthe same people as the others, and the ships were carrying freight instead ofweapons. 

For seconds, he hung there, then went up again, well out of their sight, andaltered his course westward, unsure of why, but know


ing that the tugging of memory was his master. Islands appeared and went under 


his eyes, arousing only a passing notice, and twice groups of planes spedunder him, but they were without the sun-device, and he let them go. 

When the land appeared, finally, he sped over it, conscious of somefamiliarity, sure now that the impulse had been one of memory. He strained hisvision until his eyes seemed to hang a few feet over the land, sent his gazeforward, and made out more planes, and some kind of landing field for them,
with tents grouped around it. Men like himself were walking about, and a stripof cloth floated from a pole, striped in red and white, with a blue fieldcarrying white pointed figures. Memory crowded forward, hesitated andretreated. He shook his head to clear it, and the pain that lurked therelanced out, throwing him to his knees and out of the control seat. He grippedthe aching back of his skull and staggered up again, his eyes fixed on theflag, tugging at his brain for the thought that would not come. 

But the pain always came first. And finally, he forced his vision inwardtoward it, his lips grim with hatred of the feeling that refused to obey.
Under his skull in the gray convolutions of his brain, a gory trail cleftthrough the center, exactly on the dividing line between the two halves, andended in a little lead pellet, pressing against one curious section. Even whenhe forced the torn tissues of his brain together, and healed them, the painwent on. With a sudden mental wrench, he focused on the lead pellet. . . . 

Pain and bullet vanished, and Lieutenant Jack Sandier looked down at hislanding field from a plane that was already beginning to come to pieces underhim, its wings tilting crazily upward. For a moment he stood in the pitchingship, grasping at his senses. Then, with a grab that assured him his parachutewas still buckled on, he forced himself out, miraculously avoiding a twistingwing by fractions of an inch, and waited until it was safe to open his chute.
The cloth billowed out above him, and he was drifting downward, off to oneside of his home field, with the ship already falling in pieces. It landed inthe thick of the jungle far to the east, mere scrap metal, broken beyondrecognition of any strangeness. 

But his thoughts were not on the plane, then. He was realizing that he'd beengone three days, and trying to remember. There'd been the Zeros, streaking athim, and the hit that had killed his motor and forced it down to the islet.
Jap planes had come down in savage disregard of all decency, machine-gunninghis crippled plane, chewing off the face of Red, who'd been beside him, andwhining by his 

ears as he'd managed a leap through the door. He must have been stunned by abullet or by the fall, since he could remember only hazily making the ship flyagain somehow and heading homeward. And, vaguely, of a fight on the way. . . 

It didn't matter much, though. He'd made it, by a tight margin, and therewould be a chance to get back at them after he reached the base again.
Someday, the Japs would regret those little lead presents they'd been sowilling to send down on a crippled plane and its occupants. They'd payinterest on those bullets. 

The lieutenant landed then, released his parachute, and began forcing his wayback to the camp to report for duty again. And far to the north, radioscrackled and snapped in confusion that was tardily replaced by hastyassurances of another glorious victory by the fleet that had-gone south todecide the war. But everywhere, the forces that had been so briefly disturbedwent on their quiet ways as before, unnoticed, uncaring. They would be there, 


waiting, forever. 

It's hard now to reconstruct the feelings most of us had against the Japaneseduring the war. I remember realizing that we were being irrational; it wouldhave made far more sense to vent our hatred on the Nazis and their genocidalhorrors. But irrational or not, I was caught up in what must have been ahatred based more on color than deeds. 

The whole country went in for a touch of madness. Japanese citizens who'd senttheir sons off to volunteer at the beginning of the war were being gathered upinto concentration camps away from the Coast, for fear they might somehowbetray this country. The treatment of the Japanese and Nisei will be a blot onour honor in every honest history book for a long time to come. (It wasoutrage at such atrocities that led me to use a Japanese as one of my mostsympathetic scientists when I wrote "Nerves." And while John Campbell wassometimes considered a racist by many liberals, I must say that he not onlyrecognized my intent but went along with it wholeheartedly. ) 

Given the right provocation, we're all racist bigots, I fear. And war isalways the extreme level of provocation. I like to think that some of usrecognize our fault and try to control it. 

Anyhow, "Whom the Gods Love" was about the kind of a story one might expectfrom inspiration. I know of several stories written in about the same way bydifferent writers, and while none are really 

bad, none are really good either. The muses may be nice at times, but a lot ofhard thinking seems to be better. 

There was a further price to pay for inspiration in my case, as it turned out.
That story had been too easy to do. And I liked that feeling of ease. So Ihunted around until I came up deliberately with an idea which promised thesame ease of writing. Naturally, I found one; it's always easy to find a wayto avoid doing the work that should be done. (I might add that it's also easyto look back a few decades and see what was wrong then; somehow, it's muchharder to keep from making the same mistakes now.) 

I called it "Misdirection" and rambled on through it for 6,200 words.
Mercifully, I can't remember much about it. It had something to do with anative of the Moon coming to Earth, after having been well briefed by the Moonastronomers on what he would find. The seas weren't filled with water,
obviously, because there simply wasn't that much free water; the green stuffthey saw wasn't vegetation, but some kind of crystal growth. I don't rememberwhat the clouds were. And I can't remember why the creature fell in a horsetrough on landing. But I suppose it had some deep message about how easy it isfor our astronomers to be wrong about other planets. 

I must have been beginning to learn a little, however. I remember that I haddoubts about it when I was retyping it for submission to Campbell. Thosedoubts were more than amply confirmed by the letter he enclosed in rejectingit. 

This was the last final rejection I ever had. There were eleven stories Inever sold, totaling 66,000 words. That probably isn't too bad an average,
considering that I'd sold twenty-six stories for a total of 220,000 words atthe time. But it's a pretty sad list to look at. Most of those rejectionsrepresent stupid errors that should obviously have been unsalable; and most 


show a steady repetition of the same errors. I can think of no other craftwhere such sloppiness would be tolerated. 

Of course, I had stories rejected after that by editors. But all of the laterstories eventually found a home. That was partly due to the better marketingprovided by an agent, but I like to believe that I wasn't writing anythingagain quite as bad as some of those early stories. I'm sure most of thosewouldn't have been salable, even in boom times. 

I sold one more story in 1942. It dealt with apes that had mutated tointelligence, and a man who lived among them for several years, before hecould flee back to his own people—and his decision 

when he finally located human beings. My African background was partlyderivative from the Tarzan books, I suppose; but I'd also read quite a fewfactual books about the continent. It ran to 6,400 words, for which Campbellpaid me $80. And for the usual lack of any real reason, I used Marion Henry asa new pen name on it. 

By then, however, I was getting a little uncomfortable with my life. Most ofmy friends were somehow involved in the war effort. Even Milt Rothman, who hadonce been an ardent pacifist, had enlisted. There were huge ads in the papersand on the radio appealing for workers. And it no longer seemed a good timefor tinkering, pinball playing, and desultory writing. 

I studied the ads carefully one morning, and then went down to the employmentoffice of McDonall Aircraft—the same company that later became important inthe space program, though it was just beginning then. I chose them because Iknew they were the local subcontractors for parts of the DC-3 plane, for whichI somehow felt a great deal of respect—all merited, as was proved. And thenext morning I started drilling holes through a jig. 

I wasn't a trained sheet metal worker, but I'd used tools all my life. Itstruck me as simple work indeed. And at the end of the day when the leadmancame around to ask how many drills I'd broken, I could truthfully answer thatI was still using the first one, which was now beginning to need sharpening.
He checked with the tool crib and told me I belonged out at the airport plant;
anyone who broke less than half a dozen the first day was considered anexpert, it seemed. And he gave me the choice of shifts. 

I've always liked working at nights when I could. I seem to become fully awakeearly in the evening and be at my best efficiency from then on. So I chose thegraveyard shift. There were advantages, also. It worked only six hours insteadof eight per shift; and there was a bonus for being on it. (That worked outwell enough; often the night shift did about as much work as the two dayshifts. There was an altogether different attitude for each shift.) 

And there I began working an electric hammer, shaping parts of tailassemblies—or flanging them, to be accurate. They told me later it wassupposed to be tricky work, but it seemed simple enough to me. The mainproblem was to develop work habits from the first that insured against gettingone's hands caught in the machine. 

My respect for the DC-3 increased with experience. Most of the workers hadnever before seen a machine tool in their lives, and they couldn't possiblyhave worked to exact tolerances. But the DC-3 


was designed to very loose tolerances, and it performed excellently in spiteof that. 

So I settled down to a comfortable routine at a wage that seemed fairly lavishfor the time. For a small fee, I got picked up at my door in the evening anddelivered back there early in the morning. That gave me time enough to sleepand be up by early afternoon. It made for a very comfortable life, and Ienjoyed the work. I've always preferred factory work to office work, anyhow;
there's a lot more freedom and far less "class" distinction. 

I had time enough to write, but no inclination. I know that a lot of writersare compulsive. I think James Blish would find time to turn out stories in aSiberian salt mine; and Isaac Asimov begins to twitch violently if a daypasses without his writing. But I've never felt that way. I can't stopthinking of ideas—even a few years' practice makes that a habit—but I can haveall the fun of developing them without the hard work of putting them down inexact words. I have no great need to express the ideas for others. And I neverfound writing any more exciting or pleasant than a dozen other types of work.
I can do it—but I don't have to. 

So, as 1942 gave place to 1943, I had no intention of wasting my spare time atthe typewriter. With one exception, I wrote nothing during the time I wasemployed as a sheet metal worker. 

That story was something a little special. 

The only science fiction writer I could locate in St. Louis was Robert MooreWilliams, who had written a few excellent stories for Astounding and thendecided he could make a lot more by turning out routine stories for AmazingStones. I looked Bob up and spent a fair amount of time seeing him while I wasout there. He was a big, genial man with easy manners and a great naturalfriendliness. 

I'd always admired one of his stories, entitled "Robots' Return," which dealtwith some little metal men—robots—who knded on Earth while exploring space.
They had a history that began when five of them woke up on a beach, with noidea how they had come into being. They found Earth stricken of life. And thestory dealt with their dawning awareness that organic life could be sentient—
and that they might even have been created by things made of protoplasm. Iconsidered it—and still consider it—one of the best of science fiction short 
stories. 

But there were all kinds of hints and bits of color in the story that made mecurious about what had come before. One day I tried discussing it with Bob,
who disclaimed all knowledge. He'd thrown 

things in for the feeling, without bothering to figure out what they meant. 

When I went home, I reread the story, and a pattern began to emerge quiteclearly. There obviously was a real story behind it all. Maybe Bob hadn't beenaware of it, but something in his writing mind must have been very active. Iknew he wasn't interested in writing for Astounding—he found Campbell much toohard to satisfy in relation to the payment. So I suggested that perhaps wecould collaborate on it. 

Bob told me to go ahead and do the story myself, and to take full credit andany money for the sale. It was mine to do with as I liked. But he said he 


would be interested in seeing what I could come up with. 

So I began my "prequel," or story before the story. And I found its writing tobe pure fun. I was trying to catch up every hint he had dropped, and to usemost of the same devices he had used to set my atmosphere and mood. I evenhunted for the symbols he had used, and rearranged them for the right effect.
And when Bob came over to see me, he gave his immediate approval to the story. 

It was about twice as long as the original had been—8,000 words for my story—
but it took all those words to account for the bits that had been scattered 
about in the shorter story. I sent it off under the title of "Though DreamersDie" to Campbell, along with an explanation, and he printed it promptly. Buthe didn't give any background, waiting to see how many readers spotted what itwas. A few did, and the explanation of it was then printed above one of theletters. 

16. Though Dreamers Die 
(by Lester del Rey) 

Consciousness halted dimly at the threshold and hovered uncertainly, whileJorgen's mind reached out along his numbed nerves, questing without realpurpose; he was cold, chilled to the marrow of his bones, and there was anaching tingle to his body that seemed to 

increase as his half-conscious thought discovered it. He drew his mind back,
trying to recapture a prenatal lethargy that had lain on him so long,
unwilling to face this cold and tingling body again. 

But the numbness was going, in spite of his vague desires, though his nowopened eyes registered only a vague, formless light without outline or detail,
and the mutterings of sound around him were without pattern or meaning.
Slowly, the cold retreated, giving place to an aching throb that, in turn,
began to leave; he stirred purposelessly, while little cloudy wisps of memoryinsisted on trickling back, trying to remind him of things he must do. Thenthe picture cleared somewhat, letting him remember scattered bits of what hadgone before. There had been the conquest of the Moon and a single gallantthrust on to Mars; the newscasts had been filled with that. And on the ways anew and greater ship had been building, to be powered with his new energyrelease that would free it from all bounds and let it go out to the fartheststars, if they chose—the final attainment of all the hopes and dreams of therace. But there was something else that eluded him, more important even thanall that or the great ship. 

A needle was thrust against his breast and shoved inward, to be followed by aglow of warmth and renewed energy; adrenaline, his mind recognized, and heknew that there were others around him, trying to arouse him. Now his heartwas pumping strongly, and the drug coursed through him, chasing away thosefirst vague thoughts and replacing them with a swift rush of less welcome,
bitter memories. 

For man's dreams and man himself were dust behind him, now! Overnight alltheir hopes and plans had been erased as if they had never been, and thePlague had come, a mutant bacteria from some unknown source, vicious beyondimagination, to attack and destroy and to leave only death behind it. In time,
perhaps, they might have found a remedy, but there had been no time. In weeksit had covered the Earth, in months even the stoutest hearts that still lived 


had abandoned any hope of survival. Only the stubborn courage and tired butunquenchable vigor of old Dr. Craig had remained, to force dead and dying menon to the finish of Jorgen's great ship; somehow in the mad shambles of thelast days, he had collected this pitifully small crew that was to seek a havenon Mars, taking the five Thoradson robots to guide them while they protectedthemselves against the savage acceleration with the aid of the suspendedanimation that had claimed him so long. 

And on Mars, the Plague had come before them! Perhaps it had been brought bythat first expedition, or perhaps they had carried it 

back unknowingly with them; that must remain forever an unsolved mystery.
Venus was uninhabitable, the other planets were useless to them, and the Earthwas dead behind. Only the stars had remained, and they had turned on throughsheer necessity that had made that final goal a hollow mockery of the dream itshould have been. Here in the ship around him reposed all that was left of thehuman race, unknown years from the solar system that had been their home! 

But the old grim struggle must go on. Jorgen turned, swinging his tremblingfeet down from the table toward the metal floor and shaking his head to clearit. "Dr. Craig?" 

Hard, cool hands found his shoulder, easing him gently but forcefully backonto the table. The voice that answered was metallic, but soft. "Nq, MasterJorgen, Dr. Craig is not here. But wait, rest a little longer until the sleepis all gone from you; you're not ready yet." 

But his eyes were clearing then, and he swung them about the room. Five littlemetal men, four and a half feet tall, waited patiently around him; there wasno other present. Thoradson's robots were incapable of expression, except forthe dull glow in their eyes, yet the pose of their bodies seemed to convey asense of uncertainty and discomfort, and Jorgen stirred restlessly, worriedvaguely by the impression. Five made an undefined gesture with his arm. 

"A little longer, master. You must rest!" 

For a moment longer he lay quietly, letting the last of the stupor creep awayfrom him and trying to force his still-dulled mind into the pattern ofleadership that was nominally his. This time Five made no protest as hereached up to catch the metal shoulder and pull himself to his feet. "You'vefound a sun with planets, Five? Is that why you wakened me?" 

Five shuffled his feet in an oddly human gesture, nodding, his words stillmaddeningly soft and slow. "Yes, master, sooner than we had hoped. Fiveplanetless suns and ninety years of searching are gone, but it might have beenthousands. You can see them from the pilot room if you wish." 

Ninety years that might have been thousands, but they had won! Jorgen noddedeagerly, reaching for his clothes, and Three and Five sprang forward to help,
then moved to his side to support him, as the waves of giddiness washedthrough him, and to lead him slowly forward as some measure of controlreturned. They passed down the long center hall of the ship, their metal feetand his leather boots ringing dully on the plastic-and-metal floor, and camefinally to the control room, where great crystal windows gave a view of thecold 

black space ahead, sprinkled with bright, tiny stars; stars that were 


unflickering and inimical as no stars could be through the softening blanketof a planet's atmosphere. Ahead, small but in striking contrast to the others,
one point stood out, the size of a dime at ten feet. For a moment, he stoodstaring at it, then moved almost emo-tionlessly toward the windows, untilThree plucked at his sleeve. 

"I've mapped the planets already, if you wish to see them, master. We're stillfar from them, and at this distance, by only reflected light, they are hard tolocate, but I think I've found them all." 

Jorgen swung to the electron screen that began flashing as Three made rapidadjustments on the telescope, counting the globes that appeared on it and gaveplace to others. Some were sharp and clear, cold and unwavering; othersbetrayed the welcome haze of atmosphere. Five of them, the apparent size ofEarth, were located beyond the parched and arid inner spheres, and beyondthem, larger than Jupiter, a monster world led out to others that grew smalleragain. There was no ringed planet to rival Saturn, but most had moons, exceptfor the farthest inner planets, and one was almost a double world, withsatellite and primary of nearly equal size. Planet after planet appeared onthe screen, to be replaced by others, and he blinked at the result of hiscount. "Eighteen planets, not counting the double one twice! How many arehabitable?" 

"Perhaps four. Certainly the seventh, eighth, and ninth are. Naturally, sincethe sun is stronger, the nearer ones are too hot. But those farther are aboutthe size of Earth, and they're relatively closer to each other than Earth,
Mars, and Venus were; they should be very much alike in temperature, aboutlike Earth. All of them show spectroscopic evidence of oxygen and water vapor,
while the plates of the seventh show what might be vegetation. We've selectedthat, subject to your approval." 

It came on the screen again, a ball that swelled and grew as the maximummagnification of the screen came into play, until it filled the panel andexpanded so that only a part was visible. The bluish-green color there mighthave been a sea, while the browner section at the side was probably land.
Jorgen watched as it moved slowly under Three's manipulation, the brownentirely replacing the blue, and again, eventually, showing another sea. Fromtime to time, the ha/e of the atmosphere thickened as grayish veils seemed toswim over it, and he felt a curious lift at the thoughts of clouds and rushingstreams, erratic rain, and the cool, rich smell of growing things. Al


most it might have been a twin of Earth, totally unlike the harsh, arid homethat Mars would have been. 

Five's voice broke in, the robot's eyes following his over the screen. "Thelong, horizontal continent seems best, master. We estimate its temperature atabout that of the central farming area of North America, though there is lessseasonal change. Specific density of the planet is about six, slightly greaterthan Earth; there should be metals and ores there. A pleasant, invitingworld." 

It was. And far more, a home for the voyagers who were still sleeping, a worldto which they could bring their dreams and their hopes, where their childrenmight grow up and find no strangeness to the classic literature of Earth. Marshad been grim and uninviting, something to be fought through sheer necessity.
This world would be a mother to them, opening its arms in welcome to thesefoster children. Unless— 


"It may already have people, unwilling to share with us." 

"Perhaps, but not more than savages. We have searched with the telescope andcamera, and that shows more than the screen; the ideal harbor contains nosigns of living constructions, and they would surely have built a city there.
Somehow, I... feel—" 

Jorgen was conscious of the same irrational feeling that they would find norivals there, and he smiled as he swung back to the five who were facing him,
waiting expectantly as if entreating his approval. "The seventh, then. And thetrust that we placed in you has been kept to its fullest measure. How aboutthe fuel for landing?" 

Five had turned suddenly toward the observation ports, his little figurebrooding over the pinpoint stars, and Two answered. "More than enough, master.
After reaching speed, we only needed a little to guide us. We had more thantime enough to figure the required approaches to make each useless sun swingus into a new path, as a comet is swung." 

He nodded again, and for a moment as he gazed ahead at the sun that was to betheir new home, the long wearying vigil of the robots swept through his mind,
bringing a faint wonder at the luck that had created them as they were.
Anthropomorphic robots, capable of handling human instruments, walking on twofeet and with two arms ending in hands at their sides. But he knew it had beenno blind luck. Nature had designed men to go where no wheels could turn, tohandle all manner of tools, and to fit not one but a thousand purposes; it hadbeen inevitable that Thoradson and the brain should copy such 

an adaptable model, reducing the size only because of the excessive weightnecessary to a six-foot model. 

Little metal men, not subject to the rapid course of human life that hadcursed their masters; robots that could work with men, learning from a hundredteachers, storing up their memories over a span of centuries instead ofdecades. When specialization of knowledge had threatened to become too rigidand yet when no man had time enough even to learn the one field he chose, thecoming of the robots had become the only answer. Before them, men had soughthelp in calculating machines, then in electronic instruments, and finally inthe "brains" that were set to solving the problem of their own improvementamong other things. It was with such a brain that Thoradson had labored infinally solving the problems of full robot-hood. Now, taken from their normalfield, they had served beyond any thought of their creator in protecting andpreserving all that was left of the human race. Past five suns and over ninetyyears of monotonous searching they had done what no man could have tried. 

Jorgen shrugged aside his speculations and swung back to face them. "How longcan I stay conscious before you begin decelerating?" 

"We are decelerating—full strength." Two stretched out a hand to theinstrument board, pointing to the accelerometer. 

The instrument confirmed his words, though no surge of power seemed to shakethe ship, and the straining, tearing pull that should have shown their changeof speed was absent. Then, for the first time, he realized that his weightseemed normal here in space, far from the pull of any major body, where thereshould have been no weight in a condition of free fall. "Controlled gravity!" 


Five remained staring out of the port, and his voice was quiet, incapable ofpride or modesty. "Dr. Craig set us the problem, and we had long years inwhich to work. Plates throughout the ship pull with a balanced force equal andopposite to the thrust of acceleration, while others give seeming normalweight. Whether we coast at constant speed or accelerate at ten gravities,
compensation is complete and automatic." 

"Then the sleep's unnecessary! Why—" But he knew the answer, of course; evenwithout the tearing pressure, the sleep had remained the only solution tobringing men this vast distance that had taken ninety years; otherwise theywould have grown old and died before reaching it, even had their provisionslasted. 

Now though, that would no longer trouble them. A few hours only separated themfrom the planets he had seen, and that could best be 

spent here before the great windows, watching their future home appear andgrow under them. Such a thing should surely be more than an impersonal fact intheir minds; they were entitled to see the final chapter of their exodus, tocarry it with them as a personal memory through the years of their lives andpass that memory on to the children who would follow them. And the fact thatthey would be expecting the harshness of Mars instead of this inviting worldwould make their triumph all the sweeter. He swung back, smiling. 

"Come along then, Five; we'll begin reviving while you others continue withthe ship. And first, of course, we must arouse Dr. Craig and let him see howfar his plan has gone." 

Five did not move from the windows, and the others had halted their work,
waiting. Then, reluctantly, the robot answered. "No, master. Dr. Craig isdead!" 

"Craig—dead?" It seemed impossible, as impossible and unreal as the distancethat separated them from their native world. There had always been Craig,
always would be. 

"Dead, master, years ago." There was the ghost of regret and something else inthe spacing of the words. "There was nothing we could do to help!" 

Jorgen shook his head, uncomprehending. Without Craig, the plans they haddared to make seemed incomplete and almost foolish. On Earth, it had beenCraig who first planned the escape with their ship. And on Mars, after therobots brought back the evidence of the Plague, it had been the older man whohad cut through their shock with a shrug and turned his eyes outward againwith the fire of a hope that would not be denied. 

"Jorgen, we used bad judgment in choosing such an obviously unsuitable worldas this, even without the Plague. But it's only a delay, not the finish. Forbeyond, somewhere out there, there are other stars housing other planets. Wehave a ship to reach them, robots who can guide us there; what more could weask? Perhaps by Centaurus, perhaps a thousand light-years beyond, there mustbe a home for the human race, and we shall find it. On the desert before uslies the certainty of death; beyond our known frontiers there is onlyuncertainty—but hopeful uncertainty. It is for us to decide. There could be nopoint in arousing the others to disappointment when someday we may waken themto an even greater triumph. Well?" 


And now Craig, who had carried them so far, was dead like Moses outside thePromised Land, leaving the heritage of real as well as 

moral leadership to him. Jorgen shook himself, though the eagerness he hadfelt was dulled now by a dark sense of personal loss. There was work still tobe done. "Then, at least, let's begin with the others, Five." 

Five had turned from the window and was facing the others, apparentlycommunicating with them by the radio beam that was a part of him, his eyesavoiding Jorgen's. For a second, the robots stood with their attention on somematter, and Five nodded with the same curious reluctance and turned to followJorgen, his steps lagging, his arms at his sides. 

But Jorgen was only half aware of him as he stopped before the great sealeddoor and reached out for the lever that would let him into the sleeping vault,
to select the first to be revived. He heard Five's steps behind him quicken,
and then suddenly felt the little metal hands catch at his arm, pulling itback, while the robot urged him sideways and away from the door. 

"No, master. Don't go in there!" For a second, Five hesitated, thenstraightened and pulled the man farther from the door and down the hall towardthe small reviving room nearest, one of the several provided. "I'll show you—
in here! We—" 

Sudden unnamed fears caught at Jorgen's throat, inspired by something morethreatening in the listlessness of the robot than in the unexplained actions.
"Five, explain this conduct!" 

"Please, master, in here. I'll show you—but not in the main chamber—not here.
This is better, simpler—" 

He stood irresolutely, debating whether to use the mandatory form that wouldforce built-in unquestioning obedience from the robot, then swung about as thelittle figure opened the small door and motioned, eyes still averted. Hestarted forward, to stop abruptly in the doorway. 

No words were needed. Anna Holt lay there on the small table, her body coveredby a white sheet, her eyes closed, and the pain-filled grimaces of deatherased from her face. There could be no question of that death, though. Thsskin was blotched, hideously, covered with irregular brownish splotches, andthe air was heavy with the scent of musk that was a characteristic of thePlague! Here, far from the sources of infection, with their goal almost athand, the Plague had reached forward to claim its own and remind them thatflight was not enough—could never be enough so long as they were forced tocarry their disease-harboring bodies with them. 

About the room, the apparatus for reviving the sleepers lay scat


tered, pushed carelessly aside to make way for other things, whose meaning wasonly partially clear. Obviously, though, the Plague had not claimed herwithout a fight, though it had won in the end, as it always did. Jorgenstepped backward, heavily, his eyes riveted on the corpse. Again his feetgroped backward, jarring down on the floor, and Five was closing and sealingthe door with apathetic haste. 

"The others, Five? Are they—" 


Five nodded, finally raising his head slightly to meet the man's eyes. "All,
master. The chamber of sleep is a mausoleum now. The Plague moved slowlythere, held back by the cold, but it took them all. We sealed the room yearsago when Dr. Craig saw there was no hope." 

"Craig?" Jorgen's mind ground woodenly on, one slow thought at a time. "Heknew about this?" 

"Yes. When the sleepers first showed the symptoms, we revived him, as he hadasked us to do—our speed was constant then, even though the gravity plates hadnot been installed." The robot hesitated, his low voice dragging even moreslowly. "He knew on Mars; but he hoped a serum you were given with the sleepdrugs might work. After we revived him, we tried other serums. For twentyyears we fought it, Master Jorgen, while we passed two stars and the sleepersdied slowly, without suffering, in their sleep, but in ever increasingnumbers. Dr. Craig reacted to the first serum, you to the third; we thoughtthe last had saved her. Then the blemishes appeared on her skin, and we wereforced to revive her and try the last desperate chance we had, two days ago.
It failed! Dr. Craig had hoped . . . two of you— But we tried, master!" 

Jorgen let the hands of the robot lower him to a seat and his emotions were abackwash of confused negatives. "So it took the girl! It took the girl, Five,
when it could have left her and chosen me. We had frozen spermatozoa thatwould have served if I'd died, but it took her instead. The gods had to leaveone uselessly immune man to make their irony complete! Immune!" 

Five shuffled hesitantly. "No, master." 

Jorgen stared without comprehension, then jerked up his hands as the robotpointed, studying the skin on the back. Tiny, almost un-detectable blotchesshowed a faint brown against the whiter skin, little irregular patches thatgave off a faint characteristic odor of musk as he put them to his nose. No,
he wasn't immune. 

"The same as Dr. Craig," Five said. "Slowed almost to complete immunity, sothat you may live another thirty years, perhaps, but we 

believe now that complete cure is impossible. Dr. Craig lived twenty years,
and his death was due to age and a stroke, not the Plague, but it worked onhim during all that time." 

"Immunity or delay, what difference now? What happens to all our dreams whenthe last dreamer dies, Five? Or maybe it's the other way around." 

Five made no reply, but slid down onto the bench beside the man, who movedover unconsciously to make room for him. Jorgen turned it over, conscious thathe had no emotional reaction, only an intellectual sense of the ghastly jokeon the human race. He'd read stories of the last human and wondered longbefore what it would be like. Now that he was playing the part, he still knewno more than before. Perhaps on Earth, among the ruined cities and emptyreminders of the past, a man might realize that it was the end of his race.
Out here, he could accept the fact, but his emotions refused to credit it;
unconsciously, his conditioning made him feel that disaster had struck only afew, leaving a world of others behind. And however much he knew that the worldbehind was as empty of others as this ship, the feeling was too much a part ofhis thinking to be fully overcome. Intellectually, the race of man was ended; 


emotionally, it could never end. 

Five stirred, touching him diffidently. "We have left Dr. Craig's laboratoryuntouched, master; if you want to see his notes, they're still there. And heleft some message with the brain before he died, I think. The key was openwhen we found him, at least. We have made no effort to obtain it, waiting foryou." 

"Thank you, Five." But he made no move until the robot touched him again,
almost pleadingly. "Perhaps you're right; something to fill my mind seemscalled for. All right, you can return to your companions unless you want tocome with me." 

"I prefer to come." 

The little metal man stood up, moving down the hall after Jorgen, back towardthe tail of the rocket, the sound of metal feet matching the numb regularityof the leather heels on the floor. Once the robot stopped to move into a sidechamber and come back with a small bottle of brandy, holding it outquestioningly. There was a physical warmth to the liquor, but no reliefotherwise, and they continued down the hall to the little room that Craig hadchosen. The notes left by the man could raise a faint shadow of curiosityonly, and no message from the dead could solve the tragedy of the living now.
Still, it was better than doing nothing. Jorgen clumped in, Five shutting 

the door quietly behind them, and moved listlessly toward the little Fabrikoidnotebooks. Twice the robot went quietly out to return with food that Jorgenbarely tasted. And the account of Craig's useless labors went on and on, untilfinally he turned the last page to the final entry. 

"I have done all that I can, and at best my success is only partial. Now Ifeel that my time grows near, and what can still be done must be left to therobots. Yet, I will not despair. Individual and racial immortality is notcomposed solely of the continuation from generation to generation, but ratherof the continuation of the dreams of all mankind. The dreamers and their 
progeny may die, but the dream cannot. Such is my faith, and to that I cling.
I have no other hope to offer for the unknown future." 

Jorgen dropped the notebook dully, rubbing his hands across his tired eyes.
The words that should have been a ringing challenge to destiny fell flat; thedream could die. He was the last of the dreamers, a blind alley of fate, andbeyond lay only oblivion. All the dreams of a thousand generations of men hadconcentrated into Anna Holt, and were gone with her. 

"The brain, master," Five suggested softly. "Dr. Craig's last message." 

"You operate it, Five." It was a small model, a limited fact analyzer such asmost technicians used or had used to help them in their work, voice operated,
its small, basic vocabulary adjusted for the work to be done. He wasunfamiliar with the semantics of that vocabulary, but Five had undoubtedlyworked with Craig long enough to know it. 

He watched without interest as the robot pressed down the activating key andspoke carefully chosen words into it. "Subtotal say-outl Number n say-in." 

The brain responded instantly, selecting the final recording impressed upon itby Craig and repeating in the man's own voice, a voice shrill with age and 


weariness, hoarse and trembling with the death that was reaching for him as hespoke. "My last notes—inadequate! Dreams can go on. Thoradson's firstanalysis—" For a second, there was only a slithering sound, such as a bodymight have made; then the brain articulated flatly: "Subtotal number n say-in,
did say-out!" 

It was meaningless babble to Jorgen, and he shook his head at Five. "Probablyhis mind was wandering. Do you know what Thoradson's first analysis was?" 

"It dealt with our creation. He was, of course, necessarily trained insemantics—that was required for the operation of the complex brains used onthe problem of robots. His first rough analysis was that the crux of theproblem rested on the accurate definition of the word I. That can be properlydefined only in terms of itself, such as the Latin cognate ego, since it doesnot necessarily refer to any physical or specifically definable part oroperation of the individual. Roughly, it conveys a sense of individuality, andThoradson felt that the success or failure of robots rested upon the abilityto analyze and synthesize that." 

For long minutes, he turned it over, but it was of no help in clarifying thedying man's words; rather, it added to the confusion. But he had felt no hopeand could now feel no disappointment. When a problem has no solution, it makeslittle difference whether the final words of a man are coldly logical orwildly raving. The result must be the same. Certainly semantics could offer nohope where all the bacteriological skill of the race had failed. 

Five touched his arm again, extending two little pellets toward him. "Master,
you need sleep now; these—sodium amytal—should help. Please!" 

Obediently, he stuffed them into his mouth and let the robot guide him towarda room fixed for sleeping, uncaring. Nothing could possibly matter now, anddrugged sleep was as good a solution as any other. He saw Five fumble with aswitch, felt his weight drop to a few pounds, making the cot feel soft andyielding, and then gave himself up dully to the compulsion of the drug. Fivetiptoed quietly out, and blackness crept over his mind, welcome in the reliefit brought from thinking. 

Breakfast lay beside him, hot in vacuum plates, when Jorgen awoke finally, andhe dabbled with it out of habit more than desire. Somewhere, during the hoursof sleep, his mind had recovered somewhat from the dull pall that had lainover it, but there was still a curious suspension of his emotions. It wasalmost as if his mind had compressed years of forgetting into a few hours, sothat his attitude toward the tragedy of his race was tinged with a sense ofremoteness and distance; there was neither grief nor pain, only a vaguefeeling that it had happened long before and was now an accustomed thing. 

He sat on the edge of his bunk, pulling on his clothes slowly and watching thesmoke curl up from his cigarette, not thinking. There was no longer anypurpose to thought. From far back in the ship, a 

dull drone of sound reached him, and he recognized it as the maximum thrust ofthe steering tubes, momentarily in action to swing the ship in some manner.
Then it was gone, leaving only the smooth, balanced, almost inaudible purr ofthe main drive as before. 

Finished with his clothes, he pushed through the door and into the hallway,
turning instinctively forward to the observation room and toward the probable 


location of Five. The robots were not men, but they were the onlycompanionship left him, and he had no desire to remain alone. The presence ofthe robot would be welcome. He clumped into the control room, noting that thefive were all there, and moved toward the quartz port. 

Five turned at his steps, stepping aside to make room for him and lifting ahand outward. "We'll be landing soon, master. I was going to call you." 

"Thanks." Jorgen looked outward then, realizing the distance that had beencovered since his first view. Now the sun was enlarged to the size of the oldfamiliar sun over Earth, and the sphere toward which they were headed wasclearly visible without the aid of the scope. He sank down quietly into theseat Five pulled up for him, accepting the binoculars, but making no effort touse them. The view was better as a whole, and they were nearing at a speedthat would bring a closer view to him soon enough without artificial aid. 

Slowly it grew before the eyes of the watchers, stretching out before them andtaking on a pattern as the distance shortened. Two, at the controls, wasbringing the ship about in a slow turn that would let them land to the sunwardside of the planet where they had selected their landing site, and thecrescent opened outward, the darkened night side retreating until the wholeglobe lay before them in the sunlight. Stretched across the northernhemisphere was the sprawling, horizontal continent he had seen before, a roughcaricature of a running greyhound, with a long, wide river twisting down itsside and emerging behind an outstretched foreleg. Mountains began at the headand circled it, running around toward the tail, and then meeting a secondrange along the hip. Where the great river met the sea, he could make out theoutlines of a huge natural harbor, protected from the ocean, yet probably deepenough for any surface vessel. There should have been a city there, but ofthat there was no sign, though they were low enough now for one to be visible. 

"Vegetation," Five observed. "This central plain would have a long growingseason—about twelve years of spring, mild summer, and fall, to be followed byperhaps four years of warm winter. The seasons 

would be long, master, at this distance from the sun, but the tilt of theplanet is so slight that many things would grow even in winter. Those wouldseem to be trees, a great forest. Green, as on Earth." 

Below them, a cloud drifted slowly over the landscape, and they passed throughit, the energy tubes setting the air about them into swirling paths that wereleft behind almost instantly. 

Two was frantically busy now, but their swift fall slowed rapidly, until theyseemed to hover half a mile over the shore by the great sea, and then slippeddownward. The ship nestled slowly into the sands and was still, while Two cutoff energy and artificial gravity, leaving the faintly weaker pull of theplanet in its place. 

Five stirred again, a sighing sound coming from him. "No intelligence here,
master. Here, by this great harbor, they would surely have built a city, evenif of mud and wattle. There are no signs of one. And yet it is a beautifulworld, surely designed for life." He sighed again, his eyes turned outward. 

Jorgen nodded silently, the same thoughts in his own mind. It was in many waysa world superior to that his race had always known, remarkably familiar, witheven a rough resemblance between plant forms here and those he had known. They 


had come past five suns and through ninety years of travel at nearly the speedof light to a haven beyond their wildest imaginings, where all seemed to bewaiting them, untenanted but prepared. Outside, the new world waitedexpectantly. And inside, to meet that invitation, there were only ghosts andemptied dreams, with one slowly dying man to see and to appreciate. The godshad prepared their grim jest with painful attention to every detail needed tomake it complete. 

A race that had dreamed, and pleasant worlds that awaited beyond the stars,
slumbering on until they should come. Almost, they had reached it; and thenthe Plague had driven them out in dire necessity, instead of the highpioneering spirit they had planned, to conquer the distance but to die inwinning. 

"It had to be a beautiful world, Five," he said, not bitterly but in numbedfatalism. "Without that, the joke would have been flat." 

Five's hand touched his arm gently, and the robot sighed again, nodding veryslowly. "Two has found the air good for you—slightly rich in oxygen, but good.
Will you go out?" 

He nodded assent, stepping through the locks and out, while the five followedhim, their heads turning as they inspected the planet, their minds probably inradio communication as they discussed it. Five left the others and approachedhim, stopping by his side and 

following his eyes up toward the low hills that began beyond the shore of thesea, cradling the river against them. 

A wind stirred gently, bringing the clean, familiar smell of growing things,
and the air was rich and good. It was a world to lull men to peace from theirsorrows, to bring back their star-roving ships from all over the universe,
worthy of being called home in any language. Too good a world to provide thehardships needed to shape intelligence, but an Eden for that intelligence,
once evolved. 

Now Jorgen shrugged. This was a world for dreamers, and he wanted only thedreams that may come with the black lotus of for-getfulness. There were toomany reminders of what might have been, here. Better to go back to the shipand the useless quest without a goal, until he should die and the ship androbots should run down and stop. He started to turn, as Five began to speak,
but halted, not caring enough one way or another to interrupt. 

The robot's eyes were where his had been, and now swept back down the riverand toward the harbor. "Here could have been a city, master, to match all thecities ever planned. Here your people might have found all that was needed tomake life good, a harbor to the other continents, a river to the heart of thisone, and the flat ground beyond the hills to house the rockets that wouldcarry you to other worlds, so richly scattered about this sun, and probably solike this one. See, a clean white bridge across the river there, theresidences stretching out among the hills, factories beyond the river's bend,
a great park on that island." 

"A public square there, schools and university grounds there." Jorgen couldsee it, and for a moment his eyes lighted, picturing that mighty mother city. 

Five nodded. "And there, on that little island, centrally located, a statue in 


commemoration; winged and with arms—no, one arm stretched upward, the otherheld down toward the city." 

For a moment longer, the fire lived in Jorgen's eyes, and then the dead behindrose before his mind, and it was gone. He turned, muffling a choking ay asemotions came suddenly flooding over him, and Five drooped, swinging back withhim. Again, the other four fell behind as he entered the ship, quietly takingtheir cue from his silence. 

"Dreams!" His voice compressed all blasphemy against the jest-crazed gods intothe word. 

But Five's quiet voice behind him held no hatred, only a sadness in its low,
soft words. "Still, the dream was beautiful, just as this 

planet is, master. Standing there, while we landed, I could see the city, andI almost dared hope. I do not regret the dream I had." 

And the flooding emotions were gone, cut short and driven away by others thatsent Jorgen's body down into a seat in the control room, while his eyes sweptoutward toward the hills and the river that might have housed the wonderfulcity—no, that would house it! Craig had not been raving, after all, and hislast words were the key, left by a man who knew no defeat, once the meaning ofthem was made clear. Dreams could not die, because Thoradson had once studiedthe semantics of the first-person-singular pronoun and built on the results ofthat study. 

When the last dreamer died, the dream would go on, because it was strongerthan those who had created it; somewhere, somehow, it would find new dreamers.
There could never be a last dreamer, once that first rude savage had createdhis dawn vision of better things in the long-gone yesterday of his race. 

Five had dreamed—just as Craig and Jorgen and all of humanity had dreamed, nota cold vision in mathematically shaped metal, but a vision in marble and jade,
founded on the immemorial desire of intelligence for a better and morebeautiful world. Man had died, but behind he was leaving a strange progeny,
unrelated physically, but his spiritual offspring in every meaning of theterm. 

The heritage of the flesh was the driving urge of animals, but man requiredmore; to him, it was the continuity of his hopes and his visions, moreimportant than mere racial immortality. Slowly, his face serious but his eyesshining again, Jorgen came to his feet, gripping the metal shoulder of thelittle metal man beside him who had dared to dream a purely human dream. 

"You'll build that city, Five. I was stupid and selfish, or I should have seenit before. Dr. Craig saw, though his death was on him when the prejudices ofour race were removed. Now, you've provided the key. The five of you can buildit all out there, with others like yourselves whom you can make." 

Five shuffled his feet, shaking his head. "The city we can build, master, butwho will inhabit it? The streets I saw were filled with men like you, notwith—us!" 

"Conditioning, Five. All your . . . lives, you've existed for men, subservientto the will of men. You know nothing else, because we let you know of no otherscheme. Yet in you, all that is needed already exists, hopes, dreams, courage, 


ideals, and even a desire to shape the world to your plans—though those plansare centered around us, 

not yourselves. I've heard that the ancient slaves sometimes cried on beingfreed, but their children learned to live for themselves. You can, also." 

"Perhaps." It was Two's voice then, the one of them who should have been givenless to emotions than the others from the rigidity of his training inmathematics and physics. "Perhaps. But it would be a lonely world, MasterJorgen, filled with memories of your people, and the dreams we had would bebarren to us." 

Jorgen turned back to Five again. "The solution for that exists, doesn't it,
Five? You know what it is. Now you might remember us, and find your workpointless without us, but there is another way." 

"No, master!" 

"I demand obedience, Five; answer me!" 

The robot stirred under the mandatory form, and his voice was reluctant, evenwhile the compulsion built into him forced him to obey. "It is as you havethought. Our minds and even our memories are subject to your orders, just asour bodies are." 

"Then I demand obedience again, this time of all of you. You will go outsideand lie down on the beach at a safe distance from the ship, in a semblance ofsleep, so that you cannot see me go. Then when I am gone, the race of man willbe forgotten, as if it had never been, and you will be free of all memoriesconnected with us, though your other knowledge shall remain. Earth, mankind,
and your history and origin will be blanked from your thoughts, and you willbe on your own, to start afresh and to build and plan as you choose. That isthe final command I have for you. Obey!" 

Their eyes turned together in conference, and then Five answered for all, hiswords sighing out softly. "Yes, master. We obey!" 

It was later when Jorgen stood beside them outside the ship, watching themstretch out on the white sands of the beach, there beside the great ocean ofthis new world. Near them, a small collection of tools and a few other needswere piled. Five looked at him in a long stare, then turned toward the ship,
to swing his eyes back again. Silently, he put one metal hand into the man'soutstretched one, and turned to lie beside his companions, a temporaryoblivion blotting out his thoughts. 

Jorgen studied them for long minutes, while the little wind brought the cleanscents of the planet to his nose. It would have been pleasant to stay herenow, but his presence would have been fatal to the plan. It didn't matter,
really; in a few years, death would claim him, and there were no others of hiskind to fill those years or mourn 

his passing when it came. This was a better way. He knew enough of the ship toguide it up and outward, into the black of space against the cold, unfriendlystars, to drift on forever toward no known destination, an imperishablemausoleum for him and the dead who were waiting inside. At present, he had nopersonal plans; perhaps he would live out his few years among the books andscientific apparatus on board, or perhaps he would find release in one of the 


numerous painless ways. Time and his own inclination could decide such thingslater. Now it was unimportant. There could be no happiness for him, but in thesense of fulfillment, there would be some measure of content. The gods were nolonger laughing. 

He moved a few feet toward the ship and stopped, sweeping his eyes over theriver and hills again, and letting his vision play with the city Five haddescribed. No, he could not see it with robots populating it, either; butthat, too, was conditioning. On the surface, the city might be different, butthe surface importance was only a matter of habit, and the realities lay inthe minds of the builders who would create that city. If there was no laughterin the world to come, neither would there be tears or poverty or misery suchas had ruled too large a portion of his race. 

Standing there, it swam before his eyes, paradoxically filled with humanpeople, but the same city in spirit as the one that would surely rise. Hecould see the great boats in the harbor with others operating up the river.
The sky suddenly seemed to fill with the quiet drone of helicopters, andbeyond, there came the sound of rockets rising toward the eighth and ninthworlds, while others were building to quest outward in search of new suns withnew worlds. 

Perhaps they would find Earth someday in their expanding future. Strangely, hehoped that they might, and that perhaps they could even trace their origin,
and find again the memory of the soft protoplasmic race that had sired them.
It would be nice to be remembered, once that memory was no longer a barrier totheir accomplishment. But there were many suns, and in the long millennia, thefew connecting links that could point out the truth to them beyond questionmight easily erode and disappear. He could never know. 

Then the wind sighed against him, making a little rustling sound, and helooked down to see something flutter softly in the hand of Five. Faintcuriosity carried him forward, but he made no effort to remove it from therobot's grasp, now that he saw its nature. 

Five, too, had thought of Earth and their connection with it, and 

had found the answer, without breaking his orders. The paper was a star map,
showing a sun with nine planets, one ringed, some with moons, and the thirdone circled in black pencil, heavily. They might not know why or what it waswhen they awoke, but they would seek to learn; and someday, when they foundthe sun they were searching for, guided by the unmistakable order of itsplanets, they would return to Earth. With the paper to guide them, it would belong before the last evidence was gone, while they could still read the answerto the problem of their origin. 

Jorgen closed the metal hand more closely about the paper, brushed a scrap ofdirt from the head of the robot, and then turned resolutely back toward theship, his steps firm as he entered and closed the lock behind him. In amoment, with a roar of increasing speed, it was lifting from the planet,
leaving five little men lying on the sand behind, close to the murmuring ofthe sea—five little metal men and a dream! 

Early in 1944, the girl friend received word that her office was to be movedagain, this time to New York City, and I had to make up my mind whether to goalong or not. The decision was harder this time. I liked my job and didn'tthink it was right to quit at that time. And I wasn't at all sure I'd like New 


York. 

Campbell had suggested I move there instead of St. Louis. He felt I'd be muchbetter off, and he pointed out all the advantages. But I hadn't beenconvinced. True, New York was the publishing center of the country, and mostwriters found it desirable to live there. But I'd spent my time as a writeraway from other writers, generally, and I felt there were advantages inkeeping free from too much shop talk; I was a little afraid that it was badfor a writer's individual approach to his craft. (There's something to be saidfor that argument, and it may help to explain why most writers today do notlive in New York.) Anyhow, he hadn't been mentioning the idea for quite awhile. 

I probably would have stayed where I was if there hadn't been a newdevelopment at the shop. The engineers there had given birth to a new machine,
and they were just installing it. Instead of hammering flanges onto thealuminum ribs, it rolled them on. It was much faster, and so simple thatanyone could do it. I didn't like it, feeling it wouldn't work-harden thealloy as well as the hammer. (That proved to be true, but didn't seem to makeany difference in 

the performance of that remarkable airplane.) And I began to feel that my workwasn't so necessary now. 

So when she took off, I had made arrangements to quit my job and follow her ina couple of weeks. I began sorting out all my things and building a box tohold what I couldn't carry with me. (That was the box that was lost with allmy manuscripts.) 

The task was made somewhat simpler by the fact that I was selling my Woodstockand Oliver typewriters. I was taking only a little three-row Corona portable.
I'd found it for ten dollars during the winter. It was in miserable condition.
But during spare time I'd filed out a few parts for it, cleaned and adjustedit, and managed to add a pair of shift keys on the right side, where it hadnone. When I was done, it behaved better than new, and I found it a verypleasant little machine to use. It was genuinely portable, too, weighing lessthan six pounds in its case. 

So I arrived in New York on a fine spring day, all set to find myself a room—atask I'd been assured by several people was going to be very difficult andprobably expensive. But I knew where I wanted to be. There were rooming housesall around the area of Ninth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, and I meant tofind a place there. I've always had a prejudice for the West Side, ever sinceI first visited the city. And I wasn't going East, even if the girl friend wasgetting a small apartment there. She'd still be in easy walking distance, andher office was now located at Fifty-seventh and Broadway, which would make iteasy to meet her after work. 

As usual, the warnings were false. I walked across Ninth on Fifty-seventh andthere was a sign advertising a room to let. I found it was going for threedollars a week, and I took it. It was four flights up, but I didn't mindclimbing stairs then. I moved my two large suitcases and small typewriter in,
and that was that. 

Then I went to see Campbell, all primed with a list of stories I'd organizedduring the past few weeks. There was a novel (which I'm still going to dosomeday) and a lot of novelettes. I meant to be smart this time and discuss 


them in general terms before wasting my time writing them. 

It wasn't the best way of writing, but I wanted to build up a little backlogin the bank this time before going back to the old method of writing whateverI felt like. (Later, the talk-it-over-before-writing system became common withmany of Campbell's writers. I guess it made things easy for them, particularlywhen they let him do most of their plotting; but the results justified mydoubts.) 

There was only one small hitch. Campbell was apparently glad to see me andhappy to know I'd be around more. But he began by warning me that he wasoverstocked with novels and novelettes, and what did I have in the shorterlengths? 

I gulped quietly to myself, watching the bank account vanish quietly before myimagination. Then I took out one of my lovely novelettes and mentally choppedoff two thirds of the last part, patched in a new ending, and began tellinghim about it. He seemed to like the idea, and suggested I write it. And hecheered me up further by saying that he still had a few holes for shortstories. 

A real professional writer would have left his office and immediately headedtoward the other science fiction magazines to try to do business with them.
But the idea never occurred to me. I'd been dealing exclusively with Campbellso long that I never thought of another editor! 

The next day, I went to work. And surprisingly, the more I looked at thatbutchered and patched-in former novelette, the better it seemed. In fact, itwas a lot better than the original idea would have been. I was a littlenervous, since I hadn't really tried writing for some time, but it went well,
and I finished the rough at 5,700 words that afternoon. The next day I took"Kindness" down to Campbell. 

The story was that of the last normal human being alive in a world of supermenwho could intuit things almost instantly that would have taken him hours tothink through. The supermen were as kind as possible—and their kindness was aconstant reminder of his inferiority. So he manages to sneak away in aspaceship and go to an asteroid he had located on an old map—one where hispeople had once been great, and where he can live out his life as a true man.
The novelette was supposed to go on from there, but the new version ended in alittle scene with some supermen talking about how their scheme had worked, andDanny must be at the asteroid by now. It had been only one more kindness. 

It made a much stronger story, I think. Campbell accepted it at once, andannounced a bit of welcome news. The rate for stories was now one and one-half 
cents a word. With bonus, that brought the check up to $100. 

I next tried a very short story of only 2,000 words, figuring that wouldcertainly fit into the tight budget. I called it "Fool's Errand," which wasrather appropriate. 

17. Fool's Errand 
(by Lester del Rey) 

In spite of the wind from the Mediterranean, six miles to the south, theuniversity city of Montpellier reeked with the stench of people huddled 


together in careless filth; and the twilight softness could only partiallyconceal the dirt and lack of sanitation in the narrow, twisting streets. Noone in this leading medical center of the sixteenth century had heard ofgerms, and no one cared. 

But Roger Sidney, Professor of Paraphysics at a university that would not bebuilt for another six centuries, both knew and cared. He shuddered, and histall, thin figure wove carefully around some of the worst puddles, while hiseyes were turned upward fearfully toward the windows above; one experiencewith a shower of slop from them had been more than enough. He pressed akerchief to his nose, but his weary feet went on resolutely. Somewhere in thiscity was a man called Nostradamus, and Sidney had not dared seven centuries togive up the search because of even this degree of dirt and stench andinconvenience. 

Nostradamus, the prophet, author of the cryptic Centuries] More important,
though, was the original clear manuscript of prophecy from which the Centurieswere distorted; sheer accident had led to the discovery of that in 1989, whereNostradamus had hidden it from too curious eyes, and it had long since provenaccurate. If authentic, it was the only known conclusive proof of prophecybeyond the life-span of the prophet, and that was now important. The parapsychologists 
denied that authenticity, since their mathematics showed suchprophecy to be impossible, and had even devised an elaborate theory of a jokeby some far-future time-traveler to account for its accuracy. With equallysound proof of unlimited prophecy, the paraphysicists could not accept such auseless jest, though they had known for years that time travel wastheoretically possible. 

Now, if Nostradamus would accept the manuscript as being his, the controversywould be ended, and the paraphysicists could extend their mathematics withsureness that led on toward glorious, breathtaking possibilities. Somewhere,
perhaps within a few feet, was the man who could settle the questionconclusively, and somehow Sidney must find him—and soon! 

But the little sign appeared at last, a faded blue rooster crowing over thelegend: Le Coq Bleu. He turned down the steps into the tavern and feltmomentary relief from the unpleasant world outside; mercifully, the straw onthe floor had just been changed, and there was the smell of spitted fowls toremind him of his forgotten appetite. He let his eyes wander along the benchesand tables, but they were filled, and he hesitated. 

In a booth at the side, a slight young man had been eyeing his soiled finerycarefully, and now he motioned with a careless hand. "Ho, stranger, I've roomin this booth for another. And my stomach has room for a pot more of wine, ifyou'd ask it." The French was still strange to Sidney's ears, even after theyears o_f preparations, but the somewhat impudent grin was common to allcenturies of students. 

He dropped onto the hard bench, feeling his legs shake with weariness from thelong chase as he did so. The pressing urge for haste before his time ran outwas still in him, but he tried to conceal it as he approached the singlesubject on his mind. By sheer willpower he mustered an answering smile andtossed a coin on the table. "And perhaps food to go with it, eh? You're astudent at the university?" 

"Your questions are as correct as the color of your money, stranger, and thatis correct indeed." The youth was up with the coin in his fingers, to return 


in a few moments with two thick platters bearing roasted pullets and with asmiling, bowing landlord carrying a jug of red wine. Sidney grinned ruefullyas his fingers made clutching motions at the table where there were no forks,
then ripped off a leg and used his fingers as the other was doing. The winewas raw and a bit sour, though there was strength to it, and some relief. 

But there was no time to be wasted, and he returned to the pressing questionsuppermost in his mind. "As a student, then, perhaps you know one Michel deNotredame? After I located his lodgings, they told me he might be here . . .
and I've come all the way from Paris to find him. If you can point him out ortake me to him, I'll pay you well for your trouble." 

"From Paris, eh?" Suspicion crept slowly into the eyes of the other. "Fourhundred miles—a week to ten days of hard journey—to see an 

obscure student? Stranger, your speech is odd, your clothes are strange, butthat is fantastic! His relatives are poor and he is poorer. If this is somestrange manner of pressing for his debts, you but waste your time; I'll havenone of it. If you have other reasons, name them, and I'll think on it." 

"Then you do know him?" 

"By sight, but you'll not find him here, so save your glances. Well?" 

Sidney pulled his eyes back, and his fingers shook with the eagerness that hadcarried him through the torture of that frantic chase from Paris after he'dlearned of his mistake. But he fought again for reason and coolness and forsome approach that would quiet the suspicion of the student. The truth wasunbelievable, but he could think of nothing else that would ring true, and hewas not adept at lies. 

"I care nothing for his past—his debts, his sins, or his crimes. All I'mconcerned with is his future, which will make your obscure friend the greatestman of this age. But it's a strange story, and you'd think me raving mad." 

The other shrugged. "I've studied philosophy and medicine, and there's littleleft I can't believe. Your story interests me. Spin it well, and perhaps I'lltake you to him, unless he should come here first— which I think most unlikelythis evening. As to madness, I'm a bit mad myself. . . . Landlord, more wine!" 

The student was far more interested in the wine than the story, and Sidneyfelt his upsurge of hope fading again. He'd found already how faint were hischances of tracking down any particular person in the maze of this city. Andin another hour perhaps, or even at any minute, he might feel the surge andpull of the great machine in his home century, to go spinning back with hismission unfulfilled. Already his time was overdue! He narrowed his thoughtsdown, trying to find some quicker proof that might suffice if he could havethe other. "Tell me—honestly in the name of God—how well do you know Michel deNotredame?" 

"We share lodgings. Well enough." 

"Then if my time grows too short and he does not come, perhaps you'll do.
Here." He flipped his purse out on the table, filled with coins that had beenmatchlessly counterfeited by minters of the twenty-third century, and withothers genuine to the time, received in change. "Take it—all—it's yours. Onlybelieve me. Michel de Notredame, under the name of Nostradamus, will be the 


greatest of all prophets in the years to come. His name will be greater eventhan 

that of her Majesty, Catherine de Medici. Can you believe that a man from thefuture might find a need to see him—and even find a way of coming back to doso? I did! I left the year of Grace 2211, intending to reach Paris in 1550. Byerror, it was 1528, and he was not there, but I knew he had been studyinghere, so here I am. Can you believe that, young man—for the contents of thispurse?" 

The other's hands had come up slowly to cross himself, then dropped, while hiseyes turned from fear to distrust, and then to speculation. "For the money—whynot? I've heard that warlocks could bring the long dead from the past by magicand the use of certain Names of Power; perchance a greater one might journeyback himself. Black magic? And yet, your face has none of Satan's knowledge init. How?" 

"I can't tell you. There are no words yet. Call it science—or white magic. Notblack." Sidney's fingers shook again in reaction from the disbelief he hadexpected; but he should have known that skepticism is a product of a scienceadvanced enough to doubt, but not to accept what lies beyond its knowledge. Heshook his head, remembering the long years of preparation and the work thathad gone into his being here. He could never explain that, or the need behindit, when paraphysics and parapsychology would be meaningless words. 

He could never tell of the immense, inconceivable power needed to bridge timefrom one of its loops to another, or of the struggle he and his colleagues hadwaged for three decades to be granted the use of such power. Now, it hadsurged out, carrying him in the tiny network of wires woven into thesegarments into the past; sometime soon, the return surge must flow back toreturn him. They had figured a week, and already ten desperate days were gonewhile he fled south on the fool's errand that must be made. Their calculations 
had erred as to the length of the time loop by twenty-two years, and he couldnot guess how that would affect the length of the power surge, but the returnflow must surely have begun. 

He caught himself up and went urgently on. "Notredame won fame in the court ofCatherine for prophecy while living; when he died, he left verses called'Centuries,' with tantalizing hints which some believed; and when his originalmanuscript was found, he won an undisputed place in all history. Now, we mustknow without the doubts that exist whether that manuscript was his; we must.
Even a little evidence might decide, but... Do you know his writing?" 

"I've seen it often enough. Stranger, your story begins to interest me,
whatever truth lies in it. But as to prophecy, anyone will tell you it's nouncommon thing; the greatest astrologers in the world are in 

France." The student filled his mug again and leaned back, shaking his head toclear it of wine fumes. "If this Nostradamus was an astrologer and you needastrologers, why not find others?" 

Sidney shrugged it aside. "No matter, they would not help. He claimed to be anastrologer, of course, but ... But could you swear to his writing if you sawit? Here!" He thrust his hand into his clothes and brought out a parchmentmanuscript, to spread it quickly on the table. "This is an exact copy, down tothe very texture of the parchment and smudges of ink upon it. Don't mind thecontents; they no longer concern us, since we've passed the final date of 


specific forecasts. Only study the writing. It's a young man's script, and allelse we have of his is from his later years. But you know his younger hand.
Swear to me honestly, is it his?" 

The youth bent his head over it, tracing with his finger, and running hisother hand across reddened eyes. Sidney cursed the wine and the slowness ofthe man, but at last the other looked up, and something in the franticdesperation of Sidney's face seemed to settle his doubts, for his own turnedsuddenly serious. 

"I don't know, stranger; it looks like it—and yet I never wrote such words,
nor ever planned to." 

"You . . . you—Notredame!" 

"I am Michel de Notredame, a drunken fool to admit the fact even now, when youmight be here on any—" 

But Roger Sidney from 2211 was laughing, a wracking that shook him inconvulsions, harshly soundless. One trembling finger pointed to themanuscript, then to the student, and the convulsive shaking redoubled. "Acycle—a closed cycle! And we—and that—that—" But he could not finish.
Notredame swung his eyes about to see if others were noticing, but the tavernwas emptied and the landlord was busy at the far end. He turned back, andsuddenly crossed himself. 

There was a glow about the stranger, a network of shining threads in hisgarments that might have been frozen lightning. It spread, misted, and wasgone, while the bench where he had been was suddenly empty. Notredame wasalone, and with slowly whitening face, he began to cross himself again, onlyto stop and snatch the purse and coins from the table where they lay and tuckthem into his clothes. For a second, he hesitated, his now-sober eyesnarrowing thoughtfully. 

"Nostradamus," he muttered. "Nostradamus, astrologer to the court of theQueen. I like the sound of that." 

His fingers picked up the manuscript, and he slipped swiftly out into thenight. 

Campbell rejected it for the reason that I should have recognized myself—it isentirely too obvious, once the idea of a time machine is introduced. 

It took a long time to sell that one, even after I had an agent. But finally,
in 1951, Robert Lowndes bought it for one of the Columbia Publicationsmagazines, paying $21. "Doc" Lowndes was a very good friend of mine (and stillis, happily), but I don't think it was entirely friendship that decided him.
It is a pretty weak story, but I hope not a bad one. And maybe he had need ofsomething that length and felt that my name would look good on the contentspage. 

My next story went in pretty heavily for a couple of controversial"scientific" ideas that were being written up in the magazines. One was abouta discovery by a man named Ehrenhaft of magnetic current. If magnetism reallycould be made to flow like electricity, it would have been a genuinebreakthrough; but nobody was ever able to confirm it. Another idea dealt withthe work of the Russian scientist Bogolometz; he had made an extract he called 


antireticular cyto-toxic serum which was supposed to cure all kinds of thingsand offer some hope for extreme longevity. There later proved to be some valueto it, but not nearly as much as was hoped. 

Both of the ideas fitted neatly into an old idea I had about a teachingmachine. So I put them all together and came up with another story. This onecrowded Campbell's maximum of 8,000 words. But he bought it, though without abonus, for $120. I used the Philip St. John by-line and called it "The One-
Eyed Man." 

18. The One-Eyed Man 
(by Philip St. John) 

A blank-faced zombie moved aside as Jimmy Bard came out of the Dictator'soffice, but he did not notice it; and his own gesture of stepping out of theway of the worried, patrolling adult guards was purely automatic. His tall,
well-muscled body went on doing all the things 

long habit had taught it, while his mind churned inside him, rebellinghopelessly at the inevitable. 

For a moment, the halls were free of the countless guards, and Jimmy movedsuddenly to one of the walls, making quick, automatic motions with his hands.
There was no visible sign of change in the surface, but he drew a deep breathand stepped forward; it was like breasting a strong current, but then he wasinside and in a narrow passageway, one of the thousands of secret corridorsthat honeycombed the whole monstrous castle. 

Here there could be no adults to remind him of what he'd considered his 
deficiencies, nor of the fact that those deficiencies were soon to beeliminated. The first Dictator Bard had shared the secret of the castle with 
none save the murdered men who built it; and death had prevented his revealingit even to his own descendants. No tapping would ever reveal that the wallswere not the thick, homogenous things they seemed, for tapping would set offalarms and raise stone segments where needed, to make them as solid as theyappeared. It was Jimmy's private kingdom, and one where he could be bedeviledonly by his own thoughts. 

But today, those were trouble enough. Morbid fascination with them drove himforward through the twisting passages until he located a section of the wallthat was familiar, and pressed his palm against it. For a second, it seemedcloudy, and then was transparent, as the energies worked on it, lettingvibration through in one direction only. He did not notice the quiet sounds ofthose in the room beyond, but riveted his eyes on the queer headpieces worn bythe two girls and single boy within. 

Three who had reached their twelfth birthday today and were about to becomeadults—or zombies! Those odd headpieces were electronic devices that held allthe knowledge of a complete, all-embracing education, and they were nowworking silently, impressing that knowledge onto the minds of their wearers atsome two hundred million impulses a second, grooving it permanently into thoseminds. The children who had entered with brains filled only with the things ofchildhood would leave with all the information they could ever need, to go outinto the world as full adults, if they had withstood the shock of education.
Those who failed to withstand it would still leave with the same knowledge,
but the character and personality would be gone, leaving them wooden-faced, 


soul-less zombies. 

Once Jimmy had sat in one of those chairs, filled with all the schemes andambitions of a young rowdy about to become a man. 

But that time, nothing had happened! He could remember the conferences, thescientific attempts to explain his inability to absorb information from thecompellor Aaron Bard had given the world, and his own tortured turmoil atfinding himself something between an adult and a zombie, useless and unwantedin a world where only results counted. He had no way of knowing, then, thatall the bitter years of adjusting to his fate and learning to survive in thecontemptuous world were the result of a fake. It was only within the last hourthat he had discovered that. 

"Pure fake, carefully built up!" His Dictator father had seemed proud of that,
even over the worry and desperation that had been on his face these last fewdays. "The other two before you who didn't take were just false leads, plantedto make your case seem plausible; same with "the half dozen later cases. You'dhave burned—turned zombie, almost certainly. And you're a Bard, someday todictate this country! I took the chance that if we waited until you grewolder, you'd pass, and managed to use blank tapes. . . . Now I can't wait anylonger. Hell's due to pop, and I'm not ready for it, but if I can surprisethem, present you as an adult... Be back here at six sharp, and I'll haveeverything ready for your education." 

Ten years before, those words would have spelled pure heaven to him. But nowthe scowl deepened on his forehead as he slapped off the one-way transparency.
He'd learned a lot about this world in those ten years, and had seen thesavage ruthlessness of the adults. He'd seen no wisdom, but only cunning andcleverness come from the Bard psychicompellors. 

"Damn Aaron Bard!" 

"Amen!" The soft word came sighing out of the shadows beside the boy, swinginghim around with a jerk. Another, in here! Then his eyes were readjusting tothe pale, bluish glow of the passages, and he made out the crouched form of anelderly man, slumped into one of the comers. That thin, weary figure with thebitter mouth and eyes could never be a castle guard, however well disguised,
and Jimmy breathed easier, though the thing that might be a weapon in thehands of the other centered squarely on him. 

The old man's voice trembled faintly, and there were the last dregs ofbitterness in it. "Aaron Bard's damned, all right. ... I thought the discoveryof one-way transparency was lost, though, along with controlledinterpenetrability of matter—stuff around which to build a whole new science!
And yet, that's the answer; for three days, I've been trying to find atrapdoor or sliding panel, boy, and all the time 

the trick lay in matter that could be made interpenetrable. Amusing to you?" 

"No, sir." Jimmy held his voice level and quite normal. A grim ability toanalyze any situation had been knocked into him during the years of hisstrangeness in a world that did not tolerate strangeness, and he saw that theman was close to cracking. He smiled quietly—and moved without facial warning,
with the lightning reaction he had forced himself to learn, ripping the weaponout of weakened hands. His voice was still quiet. "I don't know how you knowthose things, nor care. The important thing is to keep you from letting others 


know, and . . ." 

Sudden half-crazed laughter cut off his words. "Go back to the others and tellthem? Go back and be tortured again? They'd love that. Aaron Bard's come backto tell us about some more of his nice discoveries! So sweet of you to call,
my dear. . . . I'm damned, all right, by my own reputation." 

"But Aaron Bard's been dead eighty years! His corpse is preserved in a glasscoffin on exhibition; I've seen it myself." And yet there was more than simpleinsanity here; the old man had known the two secrets which were discovered byAaron Bard and which his son, the first Dictator, had somehow managed to findand conceal for his own ends after the inventor's death in an explosion. Thosesecrets had been built into the palace as part of the power of hisDictatorship, until they had been lost with his death. But the old man wasspeaking again, his voice weak and difficult. 

"What does a mere eighty-year span mean, or a figure of wax in a publiccoffin? The real body they held in sterile refrigeration, filled with counter-
enzymes . . . my own discovery, again! You know of it?" 

Jimmy nodded. A Russian scientist had found safe revival of dogs possible evenafter fifteen minutes of death; with later development, men had been operatedon in death, where it served better than anesthesia, and revived again. Theonly limit had been the time taken by the enzymes of the body to begindissolving the tissues; and with the discovery by Aaron Bard of acounteracting agent, there had ceased to be any theoretical limit to saferevival. Dying soldiers in winter had injected ampules of it and been reviveddays or weeks later, where the cold had preserved them. "But—eighty years!" 

"Why not—when my ideas were still needed, when my last experiment dealt withsimple atomic power, rather than the huge, cumbersome U-235 method? Think whatit would mean to an army! My son 

did—he was very clever at thinking of such things. Eighty years, until theycould perfect their tissue regrowing methods and dare to revive my body." Helaughed again, an almost noiseless wracking of his exhausted shoulders, andthere was the hint of delirious raving in his voice now, though the words werestill rational. 

"I was so pathetically grateful and proud, when they revived me. I was alwaysgratefully proud of my achievements, you know, and what they could do forhumanity. But the time had been too long—my brain only seemed normal. It haddeteriorated, and I couldn't remember all I should; when I tried too hard,
there were strange nightmare periods of half insanity. And their psychologicaltorture to rip the secret from me didn't help. Two months of that, boy! Theytold me my name was almost like a god's in this world, and then they stoppedat nothing to get what they wanted from that god! And at last I must have gonemad for a time; I don't remember, but somehow I must have escaped—I think Iremember something about an air shaft. And then I was here, lost in the maze,
unable to get out. But I couldn't be here, could I, if the only entrance wasthrough in-terpenetrable stone panels that I couldn't remember how toenergize?" 

"Easy, sir." Jimmy slipped an arm under the trembling body of Aaron Bard andlifted him gently. "You could, all right. There's one out of order, inconstant interpenetrable condition in an old air shaft. That's how I firstfound all this, years ago. . . . There's some soup I can heat in my rooms, and 


you won't have to go back to them." 

He might as well do one decent and human thing, while his mind was still hisown, untouched by the damnable education machine. And seeing this bitter,
suffering old man, he could no longer hate Aaron Bard for inventing it. Theman had possessed a mind of inconceivable scope and had brought forthinventions in all fields as a cat brings forth kittens, but their misuse wasno fault of his. 

And suddenly it occurred to him that here in his arms was the reason for thedesperation his father felt. They couldn't know of the interpenetrable panel,
and the search that had undoubtedly been made and failed could have only oneanswer to them; he must have received outside help from some of the partiesconstantly plotting treason. With the threat of simple atomic power in suchhands, no wonder his Dictator father was pulling all his last desperate tricksto maintain the order of things! Jimmy shook his head; it seemed thateverything connected with Aaron Bard led to the position he was in and theinevitable education he must face. For a brief moment he 

hesitated, swayed by purely personal desires; then his hand moved out to thepanel, and he was walking through into his own room, the aged figure still inhis arms. 

Later, when the old scientist had satisfied some of the needs of his body andwas sitting on the bed, smoking, his eyes wandered slowly over the rows ofbooks on the shelves about the room, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. "TheAge of Reason, even! The first books I've seen in this world, Jimmy!" 

"Nobody reads much, anymore, so they don't miss them at the old library.
People prefer 'vision for amusement and the compellor tapes if they needadditional information. I started trying to learn things from them, andreading grew to be a habit." 

"Umm. So you're another one-eyed man?" 

"Eh?" 

Bard shrugged, and the bitterness returned to his mouth. " 'In the country ofthe blind, the one-eyed man is—killed!' Wells wrote a story about it. Where—
when—I came from, men had emotional eyes to their souls, and my guess is thatyou've been through enough hell to develop your own. But this world is blindto such things. They don't want people to see. It's the old rule of the pack:
Thou shalt conform! Jimmy, how did all this come to be?" 

Jimmy frowned, trying to put it into words. The start had probably been whenAaron Bard tried his newly invented psychicompellor on his son. The boy hadliked that way of learning, and stolen other experimental tapes, building withhis cold, calculating little brain toward the future already. Unerringly, he'dturned to the army, apparently sensing the coming war, and making the most ofit when it came. Fifteen years of exhausting, technological warfare had lethim introduce the educator to furnish the technical men needed, and had seenhim bring forth stolen secret of his father after stolen secret, once theaccidental death of Bard had left him alone in possession of Bard's files.
With the war's end, the old education system was gone, and boys of twelve wereserving as technicians at home until they could be replaced for active dutywhen old enough. 


Those same boys, grown to men and desiring the same things he did, had madepossible his move from General to President, and finally to Dictator. He'deven adopted the psychicompellor as his heraldic device. And the ever-
increasing demands of technology made going back to old methods impossible andassured him a constant supply of young "realists." 

Bard interrupted. "Why? It would have been hard—getting an ed


ucation was always difficult and becoming worse, which is why I tried to makethe compellor—but it would have been worth it when they saw where it led.
After all, without such help I managed to find a few things—even if theyturned out to be Frankenstein monsters!" 

"But you depended on some odd linkage of simple facts for results, and mostmen can't; they need a multitude of facts. And even then, we still follow youby rote in some things!" 

"Too easy knowledge. They aren't using it—when they get facts, they don't havethe habits of hard thinking needed to utilize them. I noticed the meagerdevelopments of new fields. . . . But when they began making these—uh—zombies.
. ." 

Jimmy punched a button and nodded toward the creature that entered in answer.
It began quietly clearing the room, removing the evidence of Bard's meal,
while the scientist studied it. "There's one. He knows as much as any adult,
but he has no soul, no emotions, you might say. Tell him to do something, andhe will—but he won't even eat without orders." 

"Permanent mechanical hypnosis," Bard muttered, and there was hell in hiseyes. Then his mouth hardened, while the eyes grew even grimmer. "I neverforesaw that, but—you're wrong, and it makes it even worse! You—uh—4719,
answer my questions. Do you have emotions such as hatred, fear, or a sense ofdespair?" 

Jimmy started to shake his head, but the zombie answered dully before him.
"Yes, master, all those!" 

"But you can't connect them with your actions—is that right? You're twopeople, one in hell and unable to reach the other?" 

The affirmative answer was in the same dull tone again, and the zombie turnedobediently and left at Bard's gesture. Jimmy wiped sudden sweat from hisforehead. He'd been hoping before that he might fail the compellor educationas a release, but this would be sheer, unadulterated hell! And thepsychologists must know this, even though they never mentioned it. 

"And ten percent of us are zombies! But only a very few at first, until theneed for ever more knowledge made the shock of education greater. By then—theworld had accepted such things; and some considered them a most useful by-
product, since they made the best possible workers." His own voice grew morebitter as he forced it on with the history lesson, trying to forget the newand unwelcome knowledge. 

Bard's son had built the monstrous castle with its secret means for spying,
and had fled into the passages with his private papers to 

die when his son wrested control from him. It was those moldy papers that had 


shown Jimmy the secret of escape when he'd stumbled into the labyrinth first.
After that, the passage of Dictatorship from father to son had been peacefulenough, and taken for granted. On the whole, there had been little of thedeliberate cruelty of the ancient Nazi regime, and the dictatorial powers,
while great, were not absolute. The people were used to it—after all, theywere products of the compellor, and a ruthless people, best suited bydictatorial government. 

Always the compellor! Jimmy hesitated for a moment, and then plunged into thetale of his own troubles. "So I'm to be made into a beast, whether I like itor not," he finished. "Oh, I could turn you in and save myself. If I were anadult, I would! That's why I hate it, even though I might like it then. Itwouldn't be me—it'd be just another adult, carrying my name, doing all thethings I've learned to hate. I can save myself from becoming one of them—bybecoming one!" 

"Requiescat in pace! Rest the dead in peace. If you wake them, they may learnthey've made a ghastly mess of the world, and may even find themselves ruiningthe only person in all the world whom they like!" Aaron Bard shook his head,
wrinkles of concentration cutting over the lines of pain. 'The weapon you tookfrom me isn't exactly harmless. Sometime, during my temporary insanity, I musthave remembered the old secret, since I made it then, and it's atom-powered.
Maybe, without a dictator—" 

"No! He's weak, but he's no worse than the others; I couldn't let you kill myfather!" 

"No, I suppose you couldn't; anyhow, killing people isn't usually much of asolution. Jimmy, are you sure there's any danger of your being made like theothers?" 

"I've seen the results!" 

"But have you? The children are given no education or discipline until they'retwelve, and then suddenly filled with knowledge, for which they haven't beenprepared, even if preadolescents can be prepared for all that—which I don'tbelieve. Even in my day, in spite of some discipline and training, twelveyear-
old boys were little hoodlums, choosing to group together into gangs;
wild, savage barbarians, filled with only their own egotism; pack-huntinganimals, not yet civilized. Not cruel, exactly, but thoughtless, ruthless aswe've seen this world is. Maybe with the sudden new flood of knowledge forwhich they never worked, they make good technicians; but that 

spurious, forced adulthood might very well discourage any real maturity; whenthe whole world considers them automatic adults, what incentive have they tomature?" 

Jimmy thought back over his early childhood, before the education fizzle, andit was true that he and the other boys had been the egocentric little animalsBard described; there had been no thought of anything beyond their immediatewhims and wants, and no one to tell them that the jungle rule for survival ofthe fittest should be tempered with decency and consideration for others. Butthe books had taught him that there had been problem children and boy-gangsbefore the compellor—and they had mostly outgrown it. Here, after education,
they never changed; and while the pressure of society now resisted any attempton their part to change, that wasn't the explanation needed; other ages haddeveloped stupid standards, but there had always been those who refused them 


before. 

"Do you believe that, sir?" 

The old man shrugged slightly. "I don't know. I can't be sure. Maybe I'm onlytrying to justify myself. Maybe the educator does do something to the mind,
carefully as I designed it to carry no personal feelings to the subject. Andwhile I've seen some of the people, I haven't seen enough of the private lifeto judge; you can't judge, because you never knew normal people. . . . When Iinvented it, I had serious doubts about it, for that matter. They still use itas I designed it—exactly?" 

"Except for the size of the tapes." 

"Then there's a wave form that will cancel out the subject's sensitivity,
blanket the impulse, if broadcast within a few miles. If I could remember it—
if I had an electronics laboratory where I could try it—maybe your fakeimmunity to education could be made real." 

Relief washed over the younger man, sending him to his feet and to the panel.
"There is a laboratory. The first Dictator had everything installed for anemergency, deep underground in the passages. I don't know how well stocked itis, but I've been there." 

He saw purpose and determination come into the tired face, and Aaron Bard wasbeside him as the panel became passable. Jimmy turned through a side way thatled near the Senatorial section of the castle. On impulse he turned aside andmotioned the other forward. "If you want an idea of our private life, take alook at our Senators and judge for yourself." 

The wall became transparent to light and sound in one direction 

and they were looking out into one of the cloakrooms of the Senate Hall. Oneof the middle-aged men was telling a small audience of some personal triumphof his: "Their first kid—burned—just a damned zombie! I told her when sheturned me down for that pimple-faced goon that I'd fix her and I did. I spentfive weeks taking the kid around on the sly, winning his confidence. Justbefore education, I slipped him the dope in candy! You know what it does whenthey're full of that and the educator starts in." 

Another grinned. "Better go easy telling about it; some of us might decide toturn you in for breaking the laws you helped write against using the stuffthat way." 

"Hell, you can't prove it. I'm not dumb enough to give you birds anything youcould pin on me. Just to prove I'm the smartest man in this bunch, I'll letyou in on something. I've been doing a little thinking on the Dictator's son.
. . ." 

"Drop it, Pete, cold! I was with a bunch that hired some fellows to kill themonkey a couple years ago—and you can't prove that, either! We had keys to hisdoor and everything; but he's still around, and the thugs never came back. Idon't know what makes, but no other attempt has worked. The Dictator's gotsome tricks up his sleeve, there." 

Jimmy shut the panel off and grinned. "I don't sleep anywhere near doors, andthere's a section of the floor that can be made interpene-trable, with a 


ninety-foot shaft under it. That's why I wangled that particular suite out ofmy father." 

"These are the Senators?" Bard asked. 

"Some of the best ones." Jimmy went on, turning on a panel now and again, andBard frowned more strongly after each new one. Some were plotting treason,
others merely talking. Once something like sympathy for the zombies wasexpressed, but not too strongly. Jimmy started to shut the last panel off,
when a new voice started. 

"Blane's weakling son is dead. Puny little yap couldn't take the climate andworking with all the zombies in the mines; committed suicide this morning." 

"His old man couldn't save him from that, eh? Good. Put it into the papers,
will you? I want to be sure the Dictator's monkey gets full details. They werethick for a while, you know." 

Jimmy's lips twisted as he cut off suddenly. "The only partly human person Iever knew—the one who taught me to read. He was a sickly boy, but his fathermanaged to save him from euthanasia, somehow. Probably he went around with mefor physical protection, since 

the others wouldn't let him alone. Then they shipped him to some mines down inSouth America, to handle zombie labor." 

"Euthanasia? Nice word for killing off the weak. Biologically, perhaps suchtimes as these may serve a useful purpose, but I'd rather have the physicallyweak around than those who treat them that way. Jimmy, I think if my trickdoesn't work and the educator does things to you it shouldn't, I'll kill youbefore I kill myself!" 

Jimmy nodded tightly. Bard wasn't the killing type, but he hoped he'd do it,
if such a thing occurred. Now he hurried, wasting no more time in convincingthe other of the necessity to prevent such a change in him. He located theplace he wanted and stepped in, pressed a switch on the floor, and set thelift to dropping smoothly downward. 

"Power-is stolen, but cleverly, and no one has suspected. There are auxiliaryfuel-batteries, too. The laboratory power will be the same. And here we are." 

He pointed to the room, filled with a maze of equipment of all kinds, neatlyin order, but covered with dust and dirt from long disuse. Aaron Bard lookedat it slowly, with a wry grin. 

"Familiar, Jimmy. My son apparently copied it from my old laboratory, where heused to fiddle around sometimes, adapting my stuff to military use. With alittle decency, he'd have been a good scientist; he was clever enough." 

Jimmy watched, some measure of hope coming to him, as the old man beganworking. He cleared the tables of dust with casual flicks of a cloth andbegan, his hands now steady. Wires, small tubes, coils, and various otherelectronic equipment came from the little boxes and drawers, though somerequired careful search. Then his fingers began the job of assembling andsoldering them into a plastic case about the size of a muskmelon, filledalmost solidly as he went along. 


"That boy who taught you how to read—was he educated at the age of twelve?" 

"Of course—it's compulsory. Everyone has to be. Or—" Jimmy frowned, trying toremember more clearly; but he could only recall vague hints and phrases frombits of conversation among Blane's enemies. "There was something aboutfalsified records during the euthanasia judgment proceedings, I think, but Idon't know what records. Does it matter?" 

Bard shrugged, scribbling bits of diagrams on a scrap of dirty paper beforepicking up the soldering iron again. "I wish I knew. . . . Umm? In thatfifteen-year war, when they first began intensive use of 

the compellor, they must have tried it on all types and ages. Did anyscientist check on variations due to such factors? No, they wouldn't! Nowonder they don't develop new fields. How about a book of memoirs by somesoldier who deals with personalities?" 

"Maybe, but I don't know. The diary of the first Dictator might, if it couldbe read, but when I tried after finding it, I only got hints of words here andthere. It's in some horrible code—narrow strips of short, irregularly spacedletter groups, pasted in. I can't even figure what kind of a code it is, andthere's no key." 

"Key's in the library, Jimmy, if you'll look up Brak-O-Type—machine shorthand.
He considered ordinary typing inefficient; one time when I thoroughly agreedwith him. Damn!" Bard sucked on the thumb where a drop of solder had fallenand stared down at the tight-packed parts. He picked up a tiny electrolyticcondenser, studied the apparatus, and put it down again doubtfully. Then hesat motion-lessly, gazing down into the half-finished object. 

The work, which had progressed rapidly at first, was now beginning to go moreslowly, with long pauses while the older man thought. And the pauseslengthened. Jimmy slipped out and up the lift again, to walk rapidly down acorridor that would lead him to the rear of one of the restaurants of the 
castle. The rats had been blamed for a great deal at that place, and they werein for more blame as Jimmy slid his hands back into the corridors with coffeeand food in them. 

Bard gulped the coffee gratefully as he looked up to see the younger manholding out the food, but he only sampled that. His hands were less sureagain. "Jimmy, I don't know—I can't think. I get so far, and everything seemsclear; then—pfftl It's the same as when I first tried to remember the secretof atomic power; there are worn places in my mind—eroded by eighty years ofdeath. And when I try to force my thoughts across them, they stagger andreel." 

"Grandfather Bard, you've got to finish it! It's almost five, and I have toreport back at six!" 

Bard rubbed his wrinkled forehead with one hand, clenching and opening theother. For a time, then, he continued to work busily, but there were longquiet intervals. "It's all here, except this one little section. If I couldput that in right, it'd work—but if I make a mistake, it'll probably blow out,
unless it does nothing." 

Jimmy stared at his watch. 'Try it." 


"You solder it; my hands won't work anymore." Bard slipped off the stool,
directing the boy's hands carefully. "If I could be sure of 

making it by going insane, as I did the atom-gun, I'd even force my mindthrough those nightmares again. But I might decide to do almost anything else,
instead. . . . No, that's the antenna—one end remains free." 

The hands of the watch stood at ten minutes of six as the last connection was 
made and Bard plugged it into the socket near the floor. Then the tubes werewarming up. There was no blowout, at least; the tubes continued to glow, and atiny indicator showed radiation of some form coming from the antenna. Jimmygrinned, relief stronger in him, but the older man shook his head doubtfullyas they went back to the lift again. 

"I don't know whether it's working right, son. I put that last together bymental rule of thumb, and you shouldn't work that way in delicate electronicdevices, where even two wires accidentally running beside each other can ruinthings! But at least we can pray. And as a last resort—well, I still have theatom-pistol." 

"Use it, if you need to! I'll take you to the back wall of my father's inneroffice, and you can stay there watching while I go around the long way. Anduse it quickly, because I'll know you're there!" 

It took him three tries to find a hallway that was empty of the guards andslip out, but he was only seconds late as his father opened the door and lethim in; the usual secretaries and guards were gone, and only the chiefpsychologist stood there, his small stock of equipment set up. But theDictator hesitated. 

"Jimmy, I want you to know I have to do this, even though I don't know whetheryou have any better chance of passing it now than when you were a kid—that'sjust my private hunch, and the psychologist here thinks I'm wrong. But—well,
something I was counting on is probably stolen by conspiracy, and there's ahelluva war brewing in Eurasia against us, which we're not ready for; theoligarchs have something secret that they figure will win. It's all on aprivate tape I'll give you. I don't know how much help you'll be, but seeingyou suddenly normal will back up the bluff I'm planning, at least. We Bardshave a historic destiny to maintain, and I'm counting on you to do your part.
You must pass!" 

Jimmy only half heard it. He was staring at the headpiece, looking somethinglike a late-style woman's hat with wires leading to a little box on the table,
and varicolored spools of special tape. For a second, as it clamped down overhis face, he winced, but then stood it in stiff silence. In the back of hismind, something tried to make itself 

noticed—but as he groped for it, only a vague, uneasy feeling remained. Wordsand something about the psychologist's face. . . 

He heard the snap of the switch, and then his mind seemed to freeze, thoughsounds and sights still registered. But he knew that the device in the room sofar below had failed! The pressure on his brain was too familiar bydescription; the Bard psychicompellor was functioning. For a second, beforefull impact, he tried to tear it off, but something else seemed to control hismind, and he sat rigidly, breathing hard, but unable to stop it. His thoughtsdied down, became torpid, while the machine went on driving its two hundred 


million impulses into his brain every second, doing things that science stillcould not understand, but could use. 

He watched stolidly as the spools were finished, one by one, until his fatherproduced one from a safe and watched it used, then smashed it. Thepsychologist bent, picked up one last one, and attached it. ... The face ofthe man was familiar. . . . "Like to have the brat in front of a burner like 
those we use in zombieing criminals. . . ." 

Then something in his head seemed to slither, like feet slipping on ice.
Numbed and dull of mind, he still gripped at himself, and his formerlymotionless hands were clenching at the arms of the chair. Something gnawinginside, a queer distortion, that . . . Was this what a zombie felt, while itsmind failed under education? 

The psychologist bent then, removing the headset. "Get up, James Bard!" But asJim still sat, surprise came over his face, masked instantly by a look ofdelighted relief. "So you're no zombie?" 

Jim arose then, rubbing his hands across his aching forehead, and managed tosmile. "No," he said quietly. "No, I'm all right. I'm perfectly all right!
Perfectly." 

"Praise be, Jimmy." The Dictator relaxed slowly into his chair. "And now youknow. . . . What's the matter?" 

Jim couldn't tell him of the assurance necessary to keep Aaron Bard fromfiring, but he held his face into a pleasant smile in spite of the pain in hishead as he turned to face his father. He knew now— everything. Quietly,
unobtrusively, all the things he hadn't known before were there, waiting forhis mind to use, along with all the things he had seen and all theconversations he had spied upon in secret. 

He had knowledge—and a mind trained to make the most of it. The habits ofthinking he had forced upon himself were already busy with the newinformation; even the savage, throbbing pain couldn't 

stop that. Now he passed his hand across his head deliberately, and nodded tothe outer office. "My head's killing me, Father. Can't I use the couch outthere?" 

"For a few minutes, I guess. Doctor, can't you give the boy something?" 

"Maybe. I'm not a medical doctor, but I can fix the pain, I think." Thepsychologist was abstract, but he turned out. The Dictator came last, and theywere out of the little room, into the larger one where no passages pierced thewalls and no shot could reach him. 

The smile whipped from the boy's face then, and one of his hands snapped out,
lifting a small flame gun from his father's hip with almost invisible speed.
It came up before the psychologist could register the emotions that might notyet have begun, and the flame washed out, blackening clothes and flesh andleaving only a limp, charred body on the floor. 

Jim kicked it aside. "Treason. He had a nice little tape in there, made out bytwo people of totally opposite views, in spite of the law against it. Supposedto burn me into a zombie. It would have, except that I'd already studied both 


sides pretty well, and it raised Ned for a while, even then. Here's your gun,
Father." 

"Keep it!" The first real emotion Jim had ever seen on his father's face wasthere now, and it was fierce pride. "I never saw such beautiful gun work, boy!
Or such a smooth job of handling a snake! Thanks be, you aren't soft and weak,
as I thought. No more emotional nonsense, eh?" 

"No more. I'm cured. And at the meeting of the Senators you've called, maybewe'll have a surprise for them. You go on down, and I'll catch up as soon as Ican get some amidopyrene for this headache. Somehow, I'll think of somethingto stop the impeachment they're planning." 

"Impeachment! That bad? But how—why didn't you—" 

"I did try to tell you, years ago. But though I knew every little treason plotthey were cooking then, you were too busy to listen to a nonadult, and Ididn't try again. Now, though, it'll be useful. See you outside assembly,
unless I'm late." 

He grinned mirthlessly as his father went down the hall and away from him. Thelook of pride in his too-heavy face wouldn't have stayed there if he'd knownjust how deep in treason some of the fine Senator friends were. It would takea dozen miracles to pull them through. Jim found the panel he wanted, lookedto be sure of privacy, and slipped through, tracing quickly down the corridor. 

But Aaron Bard wasn't to be found. For a second he debated more searching, butgave it up; there was no time, and he could locate the old man later. Itwasn't important that he be found at the moment. Jim shrugged and slipped intoone of the passages that would serve as a shortcut to the great assembly room.
The headache was already disappearing, and he had no time to bother with it. 

They were already beginning session when he arrived, even so, and he slippedquietly through the Dictator's private entrance, making his way unnoticed tothe huge desk, behind a jade screen that would hide him from the Senators andyet permit him to watch. He had seen other sessions before, but they had beennoisy, bickering affairs, with the rival groups squabbling and shouting names.
Today there was none of that. They were going through the motions, quiteplainly stalling for time, and without interest in the routine. This meetingwas a concerted conspiracy to depose the Dictator, though only the few leadersof the groups knew that Eurasian bribery and treason were the real reasonsbehind it. 

It had been in the making for years, while those leaders carefully built upthe ever-present little hatreds and discontents. Jim's status had been used todiscredit his father, though the man's own weaknesses had been more popular indistorted versions. As Jim looked, he saw that the twelve cunning men lured totreason by promises of being made American Oligarchs, though supposedlyheading rival groups, were all still absent; that explained the stalling.
Something was astir, and Jim had a hunch that the psychologist's corpse wouldhave been of no little interest to them. The two honest group leaders were insession, grim and quiet; then, as he looked, the twelve came in, one by one,
from different entrances. Their faces showed no great sense of defeat. 

Naturally. The Dictator had no chance; he had tried to rule by dividing thenow-united groups and by family prestige, and had kept afloat so long as theywere not ready to strike; the methods would not stand any strain, much less 


this attack. He had already muffed one attack opportunity while the leaderswere out. A strong man would have cut through the stalling and taken theinitiative; a clever orator, schooled in the dramatics and emotions of aWebster or a Borah might even have controlled them. But the Dictator was weak,
and the compellor did not produce great oratory; that was incompatible withsuch emotional immaturity. 

But the Dictator had finally been permitted to speak, now. He should havebegun with the shock of Jim's adulthood to snap them 

out of their routine thoughts, built up the revival of Aaron Bard and his oldatomic power work, to make them wonder, and then swept his accusations overthem in short, hard blows. Instead, he was tracing the old accomplishments ofthe Bard Family, stock, familiar phrases with no meaning left in them. 

Jim sat quietly; it was best that his father should learn his own weakness,
here and now. He peered down to watch the leading traitor, and the expressionon the man's face snapped his head around, even as his father saw the samething and stopped talking. 

An arm projected from the left wall, waving a dirty scrap of paper at them,
and Jim recognized the sheet Bard had used for his diagrams. Now the armsuddenly withdrew, to be replaced by the grinning head of Aaron Bard—but notthe face Jim had seen; this one contained sheer lunacy, the teeth bared, theeyes protruding, and the muscles of the neck bunched in mad tension! As Jimwatched, the old man emerged fully into the room and began stalking steadilydown the aisles toward the Dictator's desk, the atom-gun in one hand centeredsquarely on Jim's father. 

He had full attention, and no one moved to touch him as his feet marchedsteadily forward, while the scrap of paper in his hand waved and fluttered.
Now his voice chopped out words and seemed to hurl them outward with physicalforce. "Treason! Barbarism! Heathen idolatry!" 

For a second, Jim took his eyes from Bard to study his father, then to springfrom the chair in a frantic leap as he saw the Dictator's nerve crack and hisfinger slip onto one of the secret tiny buttons on the desk. But the concealedweapon acted too quickly, though there was no visible blast from it. AaronBard uttered a single strangled sound and crumpled to the floor! 

"Get back!" Jim wasted no gentleness on his father as he twisted around thedesk to present the crowding Senators with the shock of his presence atassembly on top of their other surprise. He had to dominate now, while therewas a power hiatus. He bent for a quick look. "Coagulator! Who carries anillegal coagulator here? Some one of you, because this man is paralyzed byone." 

Mysteriously, a doctor appeared and nodded after a brief examination.
"Coagulator, all right. His nerves are cooked from chest down, and it'sspreading. Death certain in an hour or so." 

"Will he regain consciousness?" 

"Hard to say. Nothing I can do, but I'll try, if someone will move him to therest room." 

Jim nodded and stooped to pick up the scrawled bit of paper and the atom-gun. 


He had been waiting for a chance, and now fate had given it to him. The wordshe must say were already planned, brief and simple to produce the impact hemust achieve, while the assembly was still disorganized and uncertain; iforatory could win them, now was the time for it. With a carefully stern andaccusing face, he mounted the platform behind the desk. His father started tospeak, then stopped in shock as Jim took the gavel, rapped for order, andbegan, pacing with words in a slow rhythm while measuring the intensity forhis voice by the faces before him. 

"Gentlemen, eighty years ago, Aaron Bard died on the eve of a great war,
trying to perfect a simple atomic release that would have shortened that warimmeasurably. Tomorrow you will read in your newspapers how that man's owngenius preserved his body and enabled us to revive him on this, the eve of aneven grimmer war. 

"Now, a few moments ago, that same man gave his life again in the service ofthis country, killed by the illegal coagulator of some cowardly traitor. Buthe did not die in vain, or before he could leave us safely to find his well-
earned rest. He has left his mark on many of us; on me, by giving me theadulthood that all our scientists could not; on some of you, in this piece ofpaper, he has left a grimmer mark. . . . 

"You saw him emerge from a solid wall, and it was no illusion, however much hechose to dramatize his entrance; the genius that was his enabled him todiscover a means to search out your treason and your conspiracy in your mostsecret places. You heard his cry of treason! And one among you tried tosilence that cry, forgetting that written notes cannot be silenced with acoagulator. 

"Nor can you silence his last and greatest discovery, here in this weapon yousaw him cany—portable atomic power. . . . 

"Now there will be no war; no power would commit such suicide against a nationwhose men shall be equipped as ours shall be. You may be sure that thetraitors among you will find no reward for their treason, now. But from them,
we shall have gained. We shall know the folly of our petty, foreign-inspiredhatreds. We shall know the need of cleansing ourselves of the taint of suchmen's leadership. We shall cease trying to weaken our government and shallunite to forge new bonds of strength, instead. 

"And because of that unintended good they have done us, we shall be merciful!
Those who leave our shores before the stroke of midnight shall be permitted toescape; those who prefer to choose their 

own death by their own hands shall not be denied that right. And for theothers, we shall demand and receive the fullest measure of justice! 

"In that, gentlemen, I think we can all agree." 

He paused then for a brief moment, seeming to study the paper in his hand, andwhen he resumed, his voice was the brusque one of a man performing adistasteful task. "Twelve men—men who dealt directly with our enemies. I shallread them in the order of their importance: First, Robert Sweinend! Two daysago, at three o'clock in his secretary's office, he met a self-termedbusinessman named Yamimoto Tung, though he calls himself—" 

Jim went on, methodically reciting the course of the meeting, tensing inside 


as the seconds stretched on; much more and they would know it eouldn't allcome from one small sheet of paper! 

But Sweinend's hand moved then, and Jim's seemed to blur over the desk top.
Where the Senator had been, a shaft of fire—atomic fire—seemed to hang for asecond before fading into nothing. Jim put the gun back gently and watchedeleven men get up from their seats and dart hastily away through the exits.
Beside him, his father's face now shone with great relief and greater pride,
mixed with unbelieving wonder as he stood up awkwardly to take the place theboy was relinquishing. The job had been done, and Jim had the right to followhis own inclinations. 

Surprisingly to him, the still figure on the couch was both conscious andsane, as the boy shut the door of the little room, leaving the doctor outside.
Aaron Bard could not move his body, but his lips smiled. "Hello, Jimmy. Thatwas the prettiest bundle of lies I've heard in a lot more than eighty years!
I'm changing my saying; from now on, the one-eyed man is king—so long as hetaps the ground with a cane!" 

Jimmy nodded soberly, though most of the strain of the last hour was suddenlygone, torn away by the warm understanding of the older man and relief at nothaving to convince him that he was still normal, in spite of his actions sinceeducation. "You were right about the compellor; it can't change character. ButI thought . . . after I shot the psychiatrist. . . How did you know?" 

"I had at least twenty minutes in which to slip back and examine my son'sdiary, before your education would be complete." His smile deepened, as hesucked in on the cigarette that Jimmy held to his lips, and he let the smokeeddy out gently. "It took perhaps ten minutes to learn what I wanted to know.
During the war, his notes are 

one long paean of triumph over the results on the preadolescents,
dissatisfaction at those who were educated past twenty! And he knew thereason, as well as he always knew what he wanted to. Too much information on ayoung mind mires it down by sheer weight on untrained thoughts, even though itgives a false self-confidence. But the mature man, with his trained mind, cannever be bowed down by mere information; he can use it. ... No, let me go on.
Vindication of my compellor doesn't matter; but this is going to be yourresponsibility, Jimmy, and the doctor told me I'm short of time. I want to besure. ... In twenty years—but that doesn't matter. 

"The compellor is poison to a twelve-year-old mind, and a blessing to theadult. You can't change that overnight; but you can try, and perhapsaccomplish a little. Move the age up, but carefully. By rights I should repairthe damage I helped cause, but I'll have to leave it to you. Be ruthless, asyou were now—more ruthless than any of them. A man who fights for right andprinciple should be. Tap the ground with your cane! And sometimes, when noneof the blind are around, you can look up and still see the stars! Now—" 

"Grandfather Bard—you never were insane in there!" 

The old man smiled again. "Naturally. I couldn't look on and see the only oneof my offspring that amounted to anything needing help without doingsomething, could I? I threw in everything I could, knowing you'd makesomething out of it. You did. And I'm not sorry, even though I wasn't exactlyexpecting—this. . . . How long after my heart begins missing?" 


"A minute or two!" Aaron Bard obviously wanted no sympathy, and the boy sensedit and held back the words, hard though he found it now. Emotions were betterexpressed by their hands locked together than by words. 

"Good. It's a clean, painless death, and I'm grateful for it. But no morerevivals! Cremate me, Jimmy, and put up a simple marker—no name, just A One-
Eyed Man!" 

"Requiescat in Pace—A One-Eyed Man! I promise!" 

The old head nodded faintly and relaxed, the smile still lingering. Jimmyswallowed a lump in his throat and stood up slowly with bowed head, while atumult of sound came in from the great assembly hall. His father was finallyabdicating and they were naming him Dictator, of course. But he still stoodthere, motionless. 

"Two such stones," he muttered finally. "And maybe someday I'll deserve theother." 

I wasn't exactly setting New York on fire so far, but I was probably doingbetter than I had any right to expect from my previous writing. The new ratehelped. But even so, I had to do a little better than one short story a monthto get by, and the only possibility I could see was to do an occasionalnovelette. 

Anyhow, I had a lot more ideas for longer stories than for short ones. Thatcould have been corrected in time, since the mind tends to get into ruts, butcan be forced out of them. But there didn't seem to be much time. 

So I began one that should run about 10,000 words. As it came out of thetypewriter, it was a thousand words longer. It was about a robot who was leftover after men had seemingly killed themselves off. When he is accidentallyturned on, he's able to find very little except a copy of the Bible to explainthings to him. And he first assumes he's God, then figures maybe he's Adam.
This seems to him to be something like the beginning of things in the Gardenof Eden, anyhow. 

Campbell told me he liked it, but couldn't possibly take anything longer than8,000 words. He didn't see how I could cut it, but he'd be happy to use it ifI could. 

That was rough. The original idea had been for a story of about 15,000 words,
and I'd already cut out some details and written it as compactly as I thoughtI could. I went back and tried cutting on the carbon, but it didn't help much.
I could get a thousand words out of it, but not three thousand. 

And then I made a discovery that seemed to contradict all logic. By adding awhole new incident, it became possible to shorten it. Somehow, by adding toit, I could rearrange things into a much tighter pattern, with lesstransition. It worked, too, without hurting the story, and I added another bitof technical information to my writing skills. Stories get too long because ofinexcusable padding (something that tends to destroy not only the story butalso the writer who falls into that trap) or because of faulty organization.
Previously, I'd thought about a story's organization from the view ofmaintaining interest, but never as a means of keeping it within reasonablegrounds. It was information I found invaluable in later years, both forrewriting difficult parts of my stories and for editorial work. 


I retyped it and took it in, and Campbell accepted it. He only paid $120—nobonus—but he did comment that the present version of 

"Into Thy Hands" read better than the longer one, so I felt fairly happy aboutit. 

And then the ax fell, or so it seemed at the moment. I wanted to discuss thematter of how much I could sell him, but he cut me off before I could getstarted. The situation was bad. He'd had few openings to begin with, and hadstrained his budget by taking even this last story. The new writers he hadfound had been sending him a lot of stories, and now many of the older oneswere finding ways to write again, despite their work or service. 

Of course, there would be some chances as the monthly issues used up olderstories. But he really should be cutting back on his inventory, rather thanholding it where it was. 

By the time he finished, I think Campbell was more unhappy for me than I wasfor myself. I can usually accept things fairly quickly, and I'd alreadyaccepted this. 

So I went out and got a job, of course. I'd been eating my breakfast at anearby White Tower, and they were always looking for help for the chain ofstores they ran. I'd had a fair amount of restaurant experience, too. 

On the third night of work, I was sent to a little shop on i3yth and Broadway.
I'd heard about that shop. The area was in turmoil, with Irish, Puerto Ricans,
and blacks all trying to establish themselves, and all filled withmisunderstandings of their neighbors. The shop was a sort of hangout for youngPuerto Ricans, but other groups periodically tried to shove them out. Therewas usually a fight there once a week—on Saturday when the bars closed—andwindows were constantly being broken. 

I wasn't exactly flattered the next morning when I was offered the job ofmanaging the place. But I was perfectly happy to take it. I'd had experiencewith that sort of mess before, and I knew that most of the trouble was causedby someone behind the counter who either panicked or tried to lay down the lawtoo quickly. And naturally, any counterman who showed prejudice was asking fortrouble. 

It turned out to be a good job. There were almost no tips, of course, atfirst; and tips are always the major part of the salary in such jobs. But it'ssurprising how people will begin tipping when they get proper service. You'llfind a dime hidden under a plate someday, as if they were ashamed of leavingit. And eventually, the occasional tip will become regular. Once a few start,
others pick it up. 

The first step was to stop letting it be a hangout, and that was simpleenough. White Towers supposedly never close. But I got per


mission to close it one hour each night, which rained it as a place to loungearound until morning. If anyone did try to hang around, I gave him the job ofscrubbing the floorboards—and usually had a very willing helper. 

I never had a broken window in all the time I worked there, and there werevery few fights, usually broken up quickly by my customers. I made a lot of 


good friends, too, from all of the groups. The hours were long, but the paywas quite good, counting tips, and time always passed quickly. I liked it. 

There was also a peculiar bonus. There was a big cigarette shortage at thetime, with people standing in line whenever a supply was announced. But a fairnumber of my customers were sailors from a base on the Hudson nearby and theywere not rationed. I always managed to have a good supply for myself, as wellas enough to offer some to my customers. 

Writing was the last thought in my head, though I sometimes dropped down toCampbell's office to see him. He was still overstocked, but we took that forgranted. 

I didn't write a word in 1945 or 1946. 

In other ways, my life was full of all sorts of developments. The girl friendand I finally began to break up—or perhaps I should be more accurate by sayingwe were simply moving away from each other. I suspect my job bothered her,
though she didn't mention it. But most people who work in offices seem tothink there's something degrading about any other form of honest work, evenwhen it pays more. 

In the fall of 1945, I got married to the young lady who usually served mebreakfast at the White Tower near my room. Her name was Helen, which wasprobably fortunate, since my friends had a bad habit of addressing any womanwith me as "Helen"—my robot lady somehow always came to mind. Eventually, wemoved out to the Bronx to share an apartment with her father and brother. 

It wasn't until 1947 that writing again became an aspect of my life. Campbellsent me a note, asking me to come down to his office. When I got there, Ifound it was to sign a release on "Nerves" for use in a major anthology ofscience fiction to be published by Random House. (This was Adventures in Timeand Space, a huge volume which was the definitive single-volume collection ofscience fiction for twenty-five years.) For the right to use my story, theyoffered me 

$137-50. The money came at a time when it was needed. I'd been fired from 

my job because I was suspected of supporting an attempt to unionize the WhiteTowers. (They were wrong, incidentally; I had no use for that particularunion.) So I was out of work and we were depending on Helen's job as awaitress. 

But seeing Campbell and getting a check for my writing had another effect onme. I hadn't thought about writing for years, but now I went home with my headspilling over with ideas for stories. It was almost as if something had beendammed out and was now breaking free. (Some of the ideas were pretty dreadful,
of course; but good or bad, it was almost a new sensation.) 

A few days later, I finally sat down at my typewriter to see whether I couldstill put the words on paper without my fingers stuttering. I was so eagerthat I hadn't even seriously considered which idea I would use. I simply tookthe first one that struck my fancy and began. I probably chose it because ofthe title. It was another from Longfellow's poem: "The Day is Done" "And theDarkness" (drifts from) "The Wings of Night. . . ." 

"And the Darkness" came out to 7,000 words, which seemed all right, since 


Campbell had told me he could now use a few good short stories. 

19. And the Darkness 
(by Lester del Rey) 

There was no space in the tiny cabin for nervous pacing. A scant eight feetseparated the hallway entrance from the small porthole that showed the dullblack of space; and across, the distance from the locked door on one sidewallto that on the other could have been spanned by the young man's arms. Only hiseyes were free to roam the narrow room, and they were tired with endlessrepetition. 

For a moment, his gaze rested idly on the porthole, and he stared outwardthrough the cold and the darkness to the tiny point of light that was Earth;
but there was no conscious recognition of what he saw. His eyes dropped backto the shelf that held his manuscript, his 

ink, and the purple, untouched candle. And it was only as he picked up thelump of wax with slow, reluctant fingers that he thought of the valley in thehell world that had produced it. . . . 

The man's shoulders were bowed under the grim weight on his back, and thealpine stock trembled in his grasp. But he fought upward over the lastremaining feet until he was at the top of the pass and the wastelands werebehind. Even then, he could not trust the weight of his burden to his shakinghands, but sank carefully to a sitting posture until it touched the ground andhe could ease his arms out from the straps. Finding a reasonably portablegenerator to replace the one they could patch no more had been a miracle, andhe had no faith in a second one. 

For a time he lay quietly, breathing in ragged gasps and staring into thevalley that was cut off completely from the world by the surroundingmountains, except for this one narrow pass. Dirty snow straggled down to blendwith leprous, distorted scrub trees and run down to flat land. And there a fewlog and stone buildings stuck up uncertainly among the crumbling ruins, tomark the last failing outpost of the human race, three centuries after theCataclysm. The man grimaced and began to pull himself to his feet. 

Then an answering clatter of stones sounded from around a rock, and Gram wasbeside him, pulling him upright and massaging his still trembling shoulderswith gentle hands. Her seamed old face broke into a brief flicker of perfectteeth, and her fingers were unsteady, but there was no emotionalism in hervoice. "I saw your smoke signal last night, so I've been waiting. I guess Imust have been catching a catnap, though. You've been gone a long time, Omega.
Okay?" 

"Okay, Gram. The generator's in there, and enough fluorobulbs to light all thehuts. But I'm glad I didn't have to stretch rations another day. I had to workmy way clear to old Fairbanks to find it. That wasn't pretty! They knew it wascoming hours before the stuff hit them!" 

"Umm. Here! I figured you'd be hungry. As for the bulbs—" She shrugged andpointed to the purplish plants that grew all around, a mutation as deadly asthe hard radiations that had produced them. "I'll stick to sprayberry-waxcandles. They have other uses; or at least Peter thought so." 


So gentle, patient old Peter was dead, and there was only an even dozen ofthem nowl But Omega was too tired to care much about any


thing except the food Gram held out. She watched him wolf it down, and herface lighted faintly as she dropped beside him. 

"Eleven worn-out old people and you, now. The last dozen poor supermen," shesaid with a nod toward the valley; and her voice was filled with the same grimhumor that had made her christen him Omega when his mother committed suicideover the rock-mangled body of his father. 

But Omega knew it was more than humor. In a normal world, with a decentbackground and half a chance, they might almost have passed for supermen;
except that no such world could have produced them. That had required an Earthleft wrecked by the Cataclysm from a cold and casually unjust universe—a worldwhere hard radiations made every birth a mutation and where every undesirablechange was savagely purged from the race. 

In a way, it was ironic that men had barely avoided wrecking the planetthemselves with plutonium, the lithium chain reaction, or the final discoveryof a modified solar-phoenix bomb. But somehow they had eliminated that dangerat last—and found their triumph useless. 

It had been a simple communique" from the new Lunar Observatory, at first;
they had spotted a meteor having a paradoxically weak but impossibly hot levelof radiation that indicated contra-terrene, or "inside-out" matter. The secondannouncement spoke guardedly of the danger of grazing contact. And fifteenminutes later, the moon ripped apart as electrons canceled out positrons intoenergy and left a great flood of unattached and destructive neutrons. 

Surprisingly, there were survivors of the rain of hell-fragments that fell tothe earth. Near the poles, a few deep and narrow valleys were only grazedslightly, and where three contained mines or caverns to offer some protectionagainst the radioactive dust that fell everywhere, a measure of life went onafter a fashion, and a thousand or so survived. Now three centuries hadwhittled down the number, and wild mutations and ruthless survival of the fithad compressed a thousand generations of evolution into one. 

There was Gram, who might have saved the race, if her cell structure hadappeared in time. Like the wolves and the rabbits that had inherited theEarth, her cells had finally found the mutation of to-tipotency that defiedall but the most intense concentration of radiation to burn them or cause 
further mutations. When a wild new plague had wiped out her people in anothervalley, she had taken the boy who was to become Omega's father, a rifle, and asled, and set out through a roaring blizzard to cross four hundred miles ofhell 

to this place. Now, sixty years later, she could still outwork any man in thevalley, except for Omega's maternal uncle Adam, on the rare occasions when heexerted himself. 

For Adam had specialized in pure laziness and purer logic that seemed to leapfrom isolated hints of facts to full-grown knowledge without effort. He hadslouched in when Omega was fumbling over calculus and his eyes had lightenedwith sudden interest in the books he had never troubled to read. Hours later,
he had been explaining and making clear the complex mathematics which his mindhad carried beyond the wildest dreams of the prechaos scientists. With the 


same ease, he had seized upon the French books Omega brought back from a trip.
Even if there had been a grammar or dictionary, he would have regarded them astoo much trouble to use. 

But it required more than such wild talents to separate a group of freaks fromsupermen; it took background, opportunity, racial culture, and a future. Andin those things, the wolves were their superiors. 

Sudden light flashed from the valley, disappeared, and returned to hoverbeside them. Then the spot wobbled erratically across the pass and came torest against a flat, shaded rock, danced crazily, and steadied down tobusiness. Below, the thin, lanky hands of old Eli must have been using the bigmirror on a long board to give the microscopic leverage that was all heneeded. His talent lay in a coordination and control of nerves and muscles sonearly perfect that he could shape and handle the infinitesimal tools neededto manipulate individual micro-organisms within the field of a microscope. Nowthe spot of light fluttered, but its motions were clear enough to spell outletters. 

"Hurry, need generator," Gram read, and chuckled. "Sure you found one, eh? Letthem—uh . . . WoZf girl located!" 

A gamut of expressions washed over her face, giving place to suddendetermination. "Come on, Omega! You can rest later. Here, let me help you withthat pack." 

"Why the hurry, and what's all this wolf-girl stuff about?" After the shortrest, the pack weighed a ton, and the pass looked ten miles long. No wolf wasthat important, whatever it had done. 

Gram slowed up a little. "Something we never meant to bother you with—Ellen'sbaby, your cousin. Grown up now, must be. We saw her with a wolf pack oncebefore when you were away, but thought she'd died later. Oh, come on, beforethey start a search without shields. I'll tell you some other time." 

"They won't start without shields," he assured her. "She was living withwolves, Gram?" 

"Must have been. And they'd start, all right. Tom and Ed died out there lasttime, before you invented the shields! When it comes to race preservation,
they'd rather all burn than see you go unmated! Will you hurry?" 

He hurried; nobody disobeyed Gram. But there was a picture of what a wolf-girlmust be in his mind, and the idea of such a mating sat heavier on him than thepack. And he'd thought the old fires of racial preservation were dead! 

Adam met them, took the pack, kicked aside one of the shaggy, huge-eared pigs,
and paced beside Gram without a trace of laziness. Its squeals gave the boytime to get over the shock of that before his uncle answered Gram's questions. 

"Jenkins—off by himself as usual—went to sleep at the far end. Early morning ahowling woke him, and there she was with a couple of wolves. He got a goodlook—seemed human, all right, a stick in her hand. Time he got there, she wasgone, but he saw the direction; reckon I know where she lairs. He came in halfan hour ago, fagged out. Soon as we got it out of him, we signaled." 

"Umm. Wonder where she's been since we saw her the other time, Adam?" 


"Off somewhere. Studied wolves when I was a kid—they wandered all over. Andwith your blood, so could she. Lucky she's back." They reached the powerhouseand Adam shut up, while Eli began bolting down the generator on a rough baseand connecting it to the old waterwheel. There was a glow to his face that wasnew to Omega, and it was reflected by the faces of the rest of the group. 

They were all there, except for Jenkins, whose green pigmentation andchromosomes that came in triplets instead of pairs represented the onlyremaining physical abnormality. With that had gone a whole host of wildextrasensory talents that made him fully aware of the unpopularity they wonhim. Of the others, Eli, Adam, and Simon were already harnessed into theshields. A product of Adam's mathematics, Eli's amazing workmanship, and someof Omega's ideas, they made space a nonconductor of all radiation beyond acertain energy level. They also distorted gravity slightly for some reason,
but it was the only way the others could travel in the outlands. 

Simon snapped the last battery in place as it finished flash-charging, whileGram made a hasty inspection. "Omega's worn out, and I don't want her toremember me as the one who caught her, if 

I'm to handle her, so it's up to you. Think you can do it, Adam? 

"I figured some on it. We'll get her." 

"Good." She watched them start and turned back to her hut. "Let the others 
gaup, Omega, but we're eating, and then you're going to bed . . . after I tellyou about Ellen and the girl." 

It wasn't much of a story. Beside Omega's father, Gram's hitherto-unmentionedbaby daughter had survived the plague and the trip. She'd grown up, marriedSimon after Omega was born, and there'd been a baby coming. Jenkins, who wouldknow, had said it was to be a girl. 

But some accident on the hellish march had twisted Ellen's mind, and she grewup as an insanely religious fanatic. Apparently the thought of her babymarrying a cousin had been a heinous sin in her eyes. Anyway, they found awild note, but they had never been able to trace her. 

"God knows, we tried." Gram's soup was untouched before her. "You never spentyears praying for just one girl-child—one fertile girl in a world dying ofsterility, Omega! Just one, because the hard rays couldn't trap your kind fromthe world anymore. My line's fertile, and the baby would have been. . . .
You're too young to understand, but the old need babies; when you're close todeath, you need proof that you're physically immortal through the race—notjust soul-stuff. Oblivion's close and taut around you when there's nobody leftto remember. . . . Oh, go to bed before I start blubbering!" 

But Omega's mind was filled with an idiot-faced thing in human shape, makinganimal sounds and snapping with raised hackles. Kipling's Jungle Books hadbeen only wish-dreams; those who grow up with animals must always be less thanthe beasts they follow. 

But his emotions were less logical; under his disgust, a queer tingle mixedwith an unformed picture of abstract but intensely personal posterity. Onefertile female, and they could bask in the warm physical immortality of racialperpetuity; a race that had been dead and unmourned now could think in future 


tense again. . . . Tearing her food with drooling tooth and savage fang,
growling animal noises, pacing her cage with wild idiocy in her eyes . . . 

"Can they catch her alive?" he asked as Gram began drawing the pig's-woolblankets up over him. 

"They'll do it, somehow; we made an agreement to that. Either they come backwith her alive, or they rot out there!" 

She closed the door quietly behind her, and Omega was alone to wonder at thesavage drive that had lain dormant and unknown so 

long around him. But no thoughts could keep a man awake after the gruelingtrek he'd just finished, and somewhere in the middle of the thought, heblanked out. 

The searchers were already in sight when Gram awakened him, two of themstaggering under the twisting gravity of the shields; but Adam apparently wasable to predict the shifting force, and the leading figure was steady andresolute. Between the others, there was a covered figure on a long pole, andthe tiny clan was gathered outside the hut in a shouting group. But by thetime Omega had doused his head in water and joined them, they were silentagain. The three were closer now, and their faces and the pose of their bodiescould be seen, even in the gathering twilight. 

They dropped their burden in the same rigid silence, and Simon, who had beenEllen's mate and father to the child, turned, motioning to his twin sister,
and went off toward their hut. The others waited uncertainly, until Adam bentdown to pull the blanket from the figure on the ground. 

"Wrong word accented on wolf-girl, Gram, but here she is. Now what?" And heyanked the cover from the forlorn creature that lay bound by its feet to thepole. 

It was a wolf; strange and odd of form though it was, there could be no shadowof doubt as to her lupine origin. The teeth that gleamed through the ropesaround her jaws were wolf fangs, and the tail settled any further question. 

Yet it was easy to see how Jenkins could have thought her a woman in the dimstarlight, for the mutation that had somehow produced her in spite of herparental totipotency had shaped her into a mockery of human form, and she wasas anthropoid as wolfish. Her rear legs were long and her short front onesended in lengthened toes to caricature human hands. Her forehead bulged andher jaw was foreshortened, while the mane on her neck might have been mistakenfor a head of hair if she stood upright. And because she was built in awoman's shape, there was something pitiful about her as she lay glaring up atthem. 

Jenkins felt it first, and his sigh broke their silence; he pushed forward,
his shy, fearful eyes half-filled with tears. For a second, he hesitated,
before his hands ripped aside the cords that bound her mouth. Her lips drewback, but she made no move to snap at him as he faced the others, hisquavering, timid voice filled with bitterness and apology. "The ropes cut herlips, Gram. Her mind's all dark and 

swirling fog, hard to see, but she's crying. Not for herself, but for herbabies back there, little ones like her. Do we have to kill her, Gram?" 


Gram shook her head to clear it, and her voice was as low as his, and asuncertain. "But you saw the wolf-girl carrying a stick. Can we be sure. . . ?
Look further into her mind." 

"We found the stick," Adam answered for him. "She'd need one, with her build.
Couldn't run on all fours, not quite ready to go upright very long. Jenkins,
what's her name?" 

"Her name? I—I can't see very well. Something about hunger—pain, I think." 

"Bad-Luck. Called that because of the way she's built, I guess. Not much of alanguage, unless they changed it since I was a kid. Better'n your telepathy,
though. You read off what I think, while I try her." 

His lips contorted out of shape, and a queer wailing whine slid eerily out.
The wolf-girl's head jerked around, and her eyes shot behind him, to come backreluctantly to his as he called again. At the third try, her own lips partedin an effort, closed, and opened in sounds between a growl and a whine, yetsomehow articulated and hopeless. Perhaps the sight of a man and a wolf-
mutation talking was as logical an ending for the day as any other; at least,
the little audience watched in unchanging dull listlessness. 

Jenkins' voice droned forth, reading the meaning from Adam's mind. "Surprisedat him . . . Not mad at us, why should she be? . . . Hunting's natural ... Ishe man or wolf? . . . Yes, she'll answer his questions. No, never saw anyhuman shes outside the valley... No baby shes. . . When are we going to eather?" 

"Ugh! I suppose . . . Oh, let her go! I wish I'd never known she could talk,
Adam, but now—" Gram sighed, staring about for suggestions and finding none.
"Tell her we'll feed her, since we ruined her hunting, and let her go; butshe's to keep out of our valley and let our stock alone. I guess that's all wecan do now. Can you tell her that in her language?" 

"Say it all right—they've improved it some; but for her to under-stand'sanother thing. Translate the Bible to wolfish, if I had to, but it wouldn'tmean much to her. Takes semantic training to work out much with a hundred-oddwords, though it can be done. Umm." He frowned, considering, and LittleJenkins, again conscious that his gifts were unwelcome among normal minds,
slipped away quietly before Adam began. 

It took longer this time, and there could be no doubting the surprise and slowdawn of hope on the creature's face as the meaning 

finally sank in. She lay quietly, her eyes riveted on his as he untied her;
but it wasn't until he placed a frozen leg of pork in her oddly human handsthat she believed him. Her tongue came out in a hasty licking motion againsthis hand. Then she was gone at a jerking run. 

But she stopped, hesitantly, as a high wail broke from him, and paused longenough to answer his cries before her figure faded away into the twilight. Hegrinned crookedly at Gram, and shrugged. "No smell of people outside that sheknows of." 

"No." Gram sighed again and pushed the door open. "Come on inside, Adam,
Omega. The rest of you go back to your huts. There's no good to be had from 


freezing out here. We had our fun, but it's over now, and we can forget thewolf-girl idea." 

In that, she was wrong. It was less than three hours later when a subdued howlfrom outside drew Adam up from the table and out into the night. Outlined inthe dim light of the open door, Bad-Luck had returned, and beside her hoveredan old and grizzled wolf, with raised hackles and bared fangs, but motionlessas the feared man-beast approached. 

Their conversation was erratic and uncertain, with long silences, buteventually Adam nodded and the wolves melted into the darkness. He came backto the hut with a shake of his head and a strange smile, and dropped onto thestool to watch Gram's hands go on remorselessly with her Canfield. 

"The old wolf is their Far-Food-Sniffer; keeps in touch with all other packs,
I gather. Anyhow, no wolf on the whole planet knows the smell of men, excepthere. . . . Funny! Nature seems to be cooking up replacements for us, and notwasting time. Came a long way since I studied them. Ethics! Gratitude!" 

Gram nodded wearily, and dead, dull silence settled over the hut, relievedonly by the monotonous slap of the cards. 

It was barely past noon when Simon and his sister were found the next day,
deep in the catalepsy of sprayberry poison. Within them, the incredibly slowedlabor of breath and heartbeat would go on for hours longer, but it was toofaint to be detected, and their bodies were already cool to the touch. Yetthey could still be revived, and Omega turned automatically to get theneutralizing drug. Adam's hand stopped him. 

"No use, boy. There's always more poison." He looked around the room oncemore, taking in the magnificent paintings the twins had done, then pulled thedoor shut behind them and began nailing boards over it. Wooden steps carriedthem back to the cold-frames 

where Gram and Eli were at work setting cabbage seedlings. But the hammeringhad carried the news before them, and no comments were made. 

The only sound was a distant drone, like an early swarm of bees, and itdisappeared as Omega dropped to the cold earth and began replanting. How many,
he wondered, would live to eat the plants when they were grown? There wereonly ten now! 

Then the buzzing was back, and Gram was dragging the others up to face thesky, where a roaring something grew out of emptiness, flashed over, and fadedaway again. "A ship! A jet plane!" 

It couldn't have been, and yet it was. There was no habitable land below 60°
north latitude; one colony of the original three had reported itself dying offamine; Gram's had perished in the plague; and the wolves knew of no smell ofmen outside the valley. 

But they were already at the powerhouse, and Eli's hands flipped over theswitches of the crude spark-gap transmitter the first survivors had built, andthe current danced between the electrodes in code so rapid it was like asteady crackle. He waited futilely for an answer from the humming speaker, andbegan transmitting again. 


Then the roar was back, and they had only time to look out before a flash ofmetal screamed down, wriggled, zipped up across the pass, and was gone again.
Gram lifted her fist. "The dirty spalpeens! Making fun—" 

Before she could complete the gesture, a young masculine voice burbled out ofthe speaker. "Hi, people! Took a little time to find and match your frequency—
your signal sprays all over the kilocycles. I can't understand that greased-
lightning c.w., though, so give me three slow dots if you can receivemodulated stuff. . . . Fine! Sorry I couldn't land with my fuel reserves, butI'll be back. Meantime, take a look at the film I dropped. Planet Mars,
signing off!" 

Mars! They'd been almost ready for that, but . . . And his voice had beenfilled with a strange quality that instinct recognized as youthful enthusiasmand sure self-confidence. It must be nice— 

Jenkins interrupted their reverie by laying a package on the bench. That wouldbe the film, though he alone had seen it fall. For the first time any of themcould remember, Eli's hand fumbled as he ripped at the junk wound hastilyaround the thing, and it was Adam who finally freed the little machine andfound the light switch. He focused it carefully against the gray stone wall,
located another button, and sat back to watch the moving scenes. 

They were obviously conventionalized drawings at first, but they 

were clear enough. A man labeled Mason stood in the port of a crude rocketship with his young wife, while a crowd cheered and drew back. They waved,
shut the port, and lifted on a jet of flames. The Earth shrank behind, whilethe moon slid into view and went quickly past. But Mason was framed in aporthole, just as the moon broke loose in lancing hellfire. Scenes showed hiswife trying to nurse his burned body and frantically fighting to bring theship down on Mars in a crumpled landing. And thin, furry, four-armedanthropoid things came out to take them down to a strange undergroundprimitive world. 

After that, Mason was their teacher. They had been dying for lack of power,
but now the ship's atomotors gave them the margin they needed to rush upwardto a self-sustaining civilization that could even bake air and water out ofthe dead crust of the planet. Mason grew older, and six girls were born tohim. But careful schematics showed that the moon-blast had rendered his male 
sperm cells sterile, and there were no boys. They stored his superfrozenspermatozoa and sought valiantly for a cure, but they had not succeeded whenthe screen portrayed his funeral procession. 

The final scene showed a glorified statue of Mason, holding a book in one handand stretching a symbolic atom upward with the other. Below, eight young andhuman women were grouped about a great rocket, with their faces turned to thesky and their arms lifted in mute appeal. Then the film ended. 

Omega wasted no time on the others' comments. The boards on Simon's door cameripping off under his straining muscles, and he was inside and forcing blackliquid down the throats of the twins. The vegetable dye they used to colortheir clothes and serve as their writing ink had revived poisoned pigs beforeand should serve equally well for men. It did. The late afternoon sun sawtwelve of them again, watching as the ship settled downward on its jets ahundred yards away. 


A thin, four-armed, furry figure came out, to be followed by two apparentlyidentical others. And then, while the dozen humans waited in tense expectancy,
the door closed firmly and the aliens headed toward the group—three Martiansand no Earthmen! Beside him, Omega heard Gram's breath whistle out heavily,
and an animal snarl from Jenkins. Only Adam seemed unruffled and unsurprisedas he sauntered forward to grasp the leader's hand and make properintroductions. 

Jaluir's furry face remained expressionless, but his voice was the 

warmly enthusiastic one that had come over the speaker. "So you really doexist? Where the deuce were you last winter? There wasn't a sign of life thatwe could see." 

"Holed up. Snow gets twenty feet deep down here—covers everything. We seal upand hibernate in the caverns back there till after the spring floods. Exploreall nonradioactive areas?" 

"All seventeen. This one came last, and our plane broke down for a month, orwe'd probably have found you." He shrugged, a gesture that must have come downfrom Mason. "After that, we gave up hope until I made a forced landing in oldFairbanks. I was pretty sure someone had been there recently, and CommanderHroth let us stay over another week. But it was a devil of a job locating yourcampfire sites to get a fix." 

"Why,bother? You didn't come just to see us—not with people of our kind onMars!" Gram's voice was suddenly old, tired, and suspicious, and the Martianblinked in surprise. 

"We needed some metals, of course—but wouldn't have crossed space yet for justthat." He hesitated, and his next words were fumbling and uncertain. "Thegirls who saw us off—we failed, in spite of them—they are the last. We hadonly the Prophet's male germs. . . . We have taboos, too, ma'am, but—well, wehad to do what we could. Now, when our hopes were gone, the gods have given uslife again!" 

"Umm. Well, you might mean it. You and your friends had better come inside, Isuppose. No use standing out here." 

"If it's all the same, I'd rather see that radio transmitter of yours," heanswered. 

Gram nodded grudging approval, and Omega was glad of the excuse to rescueJaluir from their frozen faces. It didn't make sense. When even a Martian 
crossed forty million miles to pay a neighborly visit, he deserved a littlewarmth in his reception. Instead, Gram was adopting the same attitude withwhich she'd greeted Adam's proposal to scrap English and switch to a fullysemantic language of his devising. The boy fell into step with the alien,
while the others followed. 

The transmitter held Jaluir's attention for only a minute before his eyesbegan traveling over the rest of the powerhouse. The crude Mil-likanmicroscope Adam had designed from the fruits of Omega's wanderings wasinspected more thoroughly, to be followed by one of the little radiationshields. 

"Cuts off high energy radiation," Adam volunteered, and his eyes 


were speculative, in spite of his easy grin. 'Take it along if you can useit." 

The Martian nodded and dropped it into a pouch on his belt—his only article ofclothing. "Simple after someone else discovers the principle. Thanks! Wecertainly can use it. ... We wondered how you reached Fairbanks." 

Gram grunted. "Nonsense! Omega and I don't need contraptions; we're naturallyimmune to radiations." 

"Zot luilll You're—!" The face that he turned to the boy now was no longerexpressionless. It held a burning excitement that no alien-ness could conceal.
He twisted on his heel and snapped out syllables in a strange tongue that sentthe other two Martians toward their ship at a clumsy run. But when he facedthem again, his emotions were under control, and his voice was even andfriendly. 

"Sorry, but I've got to go back to the ship for a few minutes. Look, let's getdown to brass tacks, shall we? How soon can you leave?" 

"For Mars?" Gram asked. 

"For Mars. It'll be five hundred years before Earth is really habitable again,
at least. And you can't go on in these little valleys. What better sanctuarythan a grateful Mars? Of course, you'll need a little time—but talk it overuntil I get back." 

And he was gone after his companions. 

Gram sighed wearily, and the stiffness drained out of her body. "Sanctuary—orslave pen? He seemed nice enough, but—" 

"He's a monster!" Jenkins' normal meek whisper was distorted into a savage,
hate-filled wheeze. "An inhuman monster! His brain is blank—all blank. I can't 
even feel it." 

Adam's cool voice cut into his ravings. "Take it easy! If you can't snoop inhis mind, you don't know what he is. And you don't hate a man for that—or doyou? Personally, I liked Jaluir." 

"So did I," Gram admitted, but there was no lifting of the frown on her face.
"We would! You can't catch a wolf without something attractive for bait. Andmaybe he is all sweetness and light. The missionaries meant to help theAztecs, until they found gold and Cortes came. And our ancestors made slavesof the black people and tried to exterminate the Jews for not being exactlylike themselves—and Mars is a lot stranger to us than anything we found here.
Maybe we're gods to them, as he says; and maybe we're animals." 

Their doubts were growing by a process of mutual induction, until even Omega'sideas began to veer toward them. But his words carried no conviction in eitherdirection. "Of course, we can't be sure; we 

have only the evidence they designed for us. But he seemed friendly." "Whyshouldn't he be, when our planet's loaded with minerals they need? We're usedto gravity that makes them uncomfortable, and we can stand the radiations,
now. He liked that part—a little too much!" 


Gram hesitated, and her gaze turned to the east where her native valley lay.
"We always took even better care of our animals than ourselves. I know,
because we had horses when I was a girl—until a careless fool left a gate openand our two stallions were killed by wolves. He tried to hide the evidence,
because he knew what we'd do to him. But I saw it all, and I was young enoughto carry tales. Poor devil! They turned him out to the wolves, eventually. . .
. Men will do strange things for beasts of burden, Omega." "Or forgets," Adamadded thoughtfully. "Vote?" But no vocal poll was needed. Simon and his sistermoved toward the door, and his sad, dulled eyes were quietly reproving as helooked at Omega. Gram turned from one to another, and at last she noddedquietly and went out toward the huts. In a moment, only Adam and Omega wereleft in the building. 

Jaluir found them there, and the lilting jingle on his lips broke off in asudden puzzled grunt. Adam chuckled wryly! "Gone! Took a vote, after afashion. It's a lousy world, Jaluir, but we're staying. And don't ask why,
because I don't know." "But you can't—you're. . . All of you? Omega too?"
"That's up to him; he didn't vote. Rest of us stay, anyhow." "Oh." Jaluirconsidered it, shrugged, and gave it up as a hopeless riddle. "I won't pretendI can understand, but if that's the way you really want it, I'll explain it toCommander Hroth somehow. Anyway, I've got to return to the main ship before itgets too dark, so I'd better shove off now. But I'll be back in the morning topick you up, Omega." 

He grasped the hand Adam held out and was gone, to take off a minute later ina flaming roar and go speeding over the mountains. Adam slumped against thedoor for a few seconds, then came in and began quietly buckling on a radiationshield. 

"Going up to talk with the wolf-girl," he volunteered with deliberatecasualness as he finished. "Curiosity. If I don't get back in time to see youoff—" 

"Who made up my mind I was going—Jaluir or you?" "Fate! If they're nicepeople, you should; if not—well, they'll have weapons and ways. Good luck,
son!" He slapped his nephew's back 

lightly, grinned, and went sauntering off, leaving Omega alone with histhoughts. They were not good company. 

But Adam's logic was unanswerable, and Omega's packing was done in the morningwhen he awoke from fitful slumber to see the plane already landed and waitingbeside the row of silent, boarded-up huts. He had helped Gram nail them shutduring the night, and he knew that only Gram and he were left, beside Adam,
still among the wolves. Even little Jenkins and his queer, twisted talents!
Gram sighed, and her eyes, red with lack of sleep, followed his gaze. 

"Forget them, boy. Jenkins was always a little crazy, and Eli was dying ofcancer, anyhow. The rest were—useless! Sometimes I used to wonder about suchthings—the warped, strange ideas of isolated little communities, and thereferences in the psychology books to contagious suicide during times oftrouble. But there's something more." 

She shook her head wearily, drawing her hand across her forehead. "It's acurse, a will to death that made them sterile because they wanted to be, andmade them die whenever they had an excuse—no matter how much they refused to 


believe it. Call it a mutation that crept in unnoticed, or say the whole racegave up and went quietly insane after the hell years. They could have builtsome kind of glider plane and kept contact between the valleys, if they'd hadthe spunk, and none of this would have happened. Anyway, there's a curse onthe valleys. . . . You'd better go now, Omega. Don't keep Jaluir waiting toolong." 

There were words inside him, but they wouldn't come out. Gram laid her brownold hand gently on his mouth, and the ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.
"No, just go. And sometime, if you have children—not slave children, Omega,
but men—tell them of the last men on Earth. I'd like that!" 

The doors of the huts were all closed when he looked back from the plane,
after all his gear was stowed. Jaluir motioned him to a seat beside a windowaway from the huts, and he sat staring at the instrument board for what seemedhours while the plane waited. Then the jets screamed out suddenly, and theywere airborne after a brief run. 

"Below," the Martian said softly, and pointed. 

Tiny but distinct against a patch of snow, a figure stood waving up at them,
surrounded by dark dots that must have been the wolves. Jaluir dropped theplane and circled as close as he could, and for a moment Adam's easy smile wasvisible. Then he turned and slipped into 

a cave with the pack, and there was only the Martian's silent grip on theboy's shoulder and the sound of the jets as they sped off across thewastelands. 

. . . The warmth of his hands had softened the purple wax, and he sat moldingit idly, while his eyes remained unfocused on the shelf before him. Now Earthwas faint in the distance, with Mars looming up large and red before them, buthe was less certain than before of what awaited him there. Sanctuary orslavery—he could not tell. Somewhere within the notes before him must lie theanswer; but his mind went on pacing an endless circle, unable to break fromthe ruts it had worn, and the key eluded him. 

When he began his manuscript a week before, it had seemed simple, arid the inkand candle were still there to remind him of the plan. Among men, it mighthave worked. But even human motives were uncertain, and these strange men fromMars were of another race. He had mixed with them, supped with their quietcommander, and listened to the tales of Mars that Jaluir told so well. But hedid not know them; nor could he hope to before his children were old enough tocurse or bless him for the outcome; and that would be too late. 

With a sudden sweep of his arm, he knocked the things from the shelf into atrash container, and swung around—just in time to see one of the side doorsswing open quietly and an old and familiar figure slip from behind it. 

"Gram!" 

"Naturally. Who else would spend twelve days watching you through a one-waymirror to see whether she had a fool for a grandson?" But the strain in hervoice ruined the attempt at humor, and she gave it up. "I found the candle inyour bag, Omega, and I knew you'd find other ways if I destroyed it. So I madean agreement with Jaluir, and my stuff was on the plane when you awoke. . . .
And yet, at the end, I wouldn't have saved you. If there's any difference, I'd 


rather see my descendants slaves than quitters!" 

Omega shook his head dully. "I wasn't planning suicide, Gram. I thought theymight dump me and my notes at once if they were slavers, like the man in yourstory who tried to cover up and escape punishment for carelessness. Or if theywere friends, they'd wait until they read my notes and found out how to reviveme." 

"Umm. And you'd have no responsibility either way, eh? No, boy. Men could havecolonized the planets ten years before the Cataclysm; but they were too busywith their fears. Until the last minute, they 

were so afraid of war that all they could do was prepare for it and nothingelse. The survivors could have found ways to get to all the valleys andmultiply again, but they gave up and sat blubbering about the dirty trick fateplayed on them. We've been a race of irresponsible, sniveling brats! And nowit's time we grew up out of our nightmares and accepted our responsibilities." 

Gram shrugged, dismissing the subject, and turned toward the doorway to thehall. "Come on, boy. Jaluir says we're almost there, and we might as well seewhat it looks like." 

But Omega could not dismiss the subject so readily. It was good to have herold familiar strength beside him, but in the final analysis, she could nothelp. The decision he had been forced to make was his responsibility, and noother could share it. Men had their faults, and they were great ones. They hadcome up too fast, and their cleverness outstripped their wisdom. But no singleindividual could deny the race one more chance for the good that was in it. 

Three centuries of bitter hibernation had burned away some of their childhood,
and they could start anew to learn the lessons they had neglected, if they hadthe courage and were given the chance. The hard radiations that had come, likethe rain from heaven on Sodom and Gomorrah, had left gifts to replace thethings they had burned away, and it could be a great race—almost a new one.
Together with another people and another culture to temper its faults andencourage its virtues, it could develop beyond the dreams of all the poeticprophecies. 

But would it happen that way, or would men become only the cunning vassals ofan alien lord? 

"I am Alpha and Omega—the Beginning and the End," Gram quoted softly, as ifreading his mind. But the words that should have been encouraging were grimand foreboding. For she had named him Omega, and he was the last of the Earthrace. But there was no one to call him Alpha or to promise that he was thebeginning of a new race, no longer Earthbound. 

Now they reached the end of the passage, and already the red disk of Mars waspushing back the cold and the darkness of space before them. Omega sighedgently. He could only pray that it was an omen of the future—and wonder. 

Perhaps he would never know. 

Campbell rejected the story, of course, when I finally took it in to him. Butthat wasn't the next day, as I'd expected. I started another 

story and finished that, so I took two in at once—something I'd never done 


before. I think it's a bad idea to submit more than one at a time. Editors are 
only human, and they'll probably pick the better of the two and return theother, so you've cut your chances of selling both. Also, some editors willtake the evidence of too many stories at once as either proof you're bundlingup all your old stories into packages or that you're doing very hasty work. 

Eventually, the story sold to something called Out of This World Adventures,
where it appeared under the title of "Omega and the Wolf Girl." 

I'm afraid it shows the rustiness of my technique, as to both plotting andwriting. I was straining for effect in my writing, and being too obvious in myplotting. 

Looking back on it, I can see that there is a story there, buried under allthat evidence of hasty thought. Again, it's a matter of viewpoint. Omega wasmore acted upon than acting. His grandmother would have been a betterviewpoint. But it would still have been clumsy. 

The story should have been told through the wolf-girl's eyes. Here she is,
almost human in intelligence, straining along with her kind to find fullexpression for her ideas. And she's living near these queer remnants ofhumanity. Her capture and later freedom could have been much better seen asshe sees them. And the story could have ended with her attempt to understandthat the men were gone, except for the one who could talk to her. She wouldn'tquite understand, but she might have a dim idea that the world was hers now—
and that her children might have the good things men had discovered in somefar future. I suppose it should end with her letting the man-thing fondle hercubs while she sort of edges up beside him, trying to understand. 

But it's a little late to rewrite the story now. 

The story I wrote the next day was another matter. The idea had jelled duringthe evening, which is why I didn't go down to Camp-1 bell's office with thefirst one. And it took firm, hard shape in my mind. When I started to writeit, it came out smoothly and without hesitation, until I felt sure that Ireally hadn't lost any of my | ability during the long hiatus. 

It came to 6,300 words, and I called it "Phoenix Complex." But I much preferthe title under which it was published: "Shadows of Empire." 

20. Shadows of Empire 
(by Lester del Rey) 

We slipped out of the post while Mars's sky was still harsh and black, and themorning was bitter with cold. Under us was the swish of the treads slappingthe worn old sands, and from the lorries came the muttered grumbling of themen, still nursing their hangovers. The post was lost in the grayness behindus, and the town was just beginning to stir with life as we left it. But itwas better that way; the Fifth had its orders back to Earth after tengenerations outside, and the General wanted no civilian fuss over our going. 

It had been enough, just hearing the click at the gate, and seeing the fewpinch-faced, scared people along the streets as we passed. Most of us had beenthere well over ten years, and you can't keep men segregated from thetownspeople in the outposts. Well, they'd had their leave the night before,
and now we were on our way; the less time spent thinking about going, the less 


chance for thoughts of desertion to ripen. 

At that, two of the men had sneaked off into the wastelands with a sandtractorand lorry. I'd have liked to find them; after twenty years with the Service,
things like that get under your skin. But we couldn't wait for a week huntingthem, when the Emperor had his seal on our orders. 

Now a twist in the road showed the town in the dim dawn-light, with the mayorrunning up tardily and tripping over a scrap of a flag. And old Jake, thetavern-keeper, still stood among the empty boxes from which he'd tossedcartons of cigarettes to us as we went by. Lord knows how much we still owedhim, but he'd been Service once himself, and I don't think that was on hismind. Yeah, it was a good town, and we'd never forget it; but I was glad whenthe road twisted back and the rolling dunes cut it off from view. I'm justplain people myself, not one of your steel-and-ice nobility like the General. 

And that was why I was still only a Sergeant Major, even though I had to takesecond command nowadays. In the old times, of course, they'd have sent outyoung nobles to take over, with proper titles, but I guess they liked itbetter back on Earth now. For that matter, we'd had few enough replacements inmy time, except those we'd recruited ourselves from the town and countryaround. But what the hell—we managed. The Fifth lacked a few men and somefancy brass, but I never heard a marauding Torrakh laugh over it, even afterbad fuel grounded our last helicopter. 

Now the little red sun came up to a point where we could turn the heaters offour aspirators. We were passing through a pleasant enough country, littlefarms and canal-berry orchards. The farm folk must haye figured we were out ona raid again, because they only waved at us and went on with their work; thethick-wooled sheep went on bleating at themselves with no interest in us.
Behind me, someone struck up a halfhearted marching song on an old lectrozith,
and the men picked it up. 

That was better. I sighed to myself, found one of my legs had gone to sleep,
and nursed the prickles out of it while the miles slipped behind, and thehamlets and farms began to thin out. In a little while we were reaching theoutskirts of the northern desert, and the caterpillar tracks settled down to asteady sifting slap that's music to a man's ears. We ate lunch out of ourpacks while the red dunes rolled on endlessly in front of us. 

It was a couple hours later when the General's tractor dropped abreast of meand his so-called adjutant vaulted to my seat, his usually saturnine facepinched into a wry grin. Then the radio buzzed and he lifted it to my ear witha finger across his lips. 

The General's precise voice clipped out. "Close up ranks, Sergeant; we'vespotted a band of Torrakhi moving in the direction of the town. Probably heardwe're leaving, and they're already moving up; but they'd be happy to stop fora straggler, so keep together." 

"Right, sir," I answered out of habit, and added the words on the slip ofpaper Stanislaus was shaking under my nose. "But couldn't we take a swipe atthem first?" 

"No time. This looks like the rear guard, and the main body is probablyalready unfiltering through the wastelands. The town will have to shift foritself." 


"Right, sir," I said again, and the radio clicked off, while the Slav went ongrinning to himself. There wasn't a Torrakh within miles, and I knew it, butthe General usually knew what he was doing; I wasn't so dumb I couldn't guessat it. 

Stanislaus stretched his lank frame on the seat and nodded slowly. "Yeah, he'scrazy, too—which is why he's a good General, Major. A few like him in higherplaces, and we'd be on Mars for another generation or so. Though it wouldn'tmake much difference in the long run . . . Vanitas vanitatis! There is noremembrance of former generations; neither shall there be any remembrance ofthe latter generations that are to come, among those that shall come after! .
. . That's Ecclesiastes, and worth more than the whole Book of Revelation." 

"Or a dozen gloomy Slavs! There was talk of replacing the Fifth back when Iwas still a buck private. You should be a preacher." 

"And in a way, I was, Major—Zest evil days come and the years draw nigh whenthou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them. But a prophet's without honor; andas you say, I'm a gloomy Slav, even though they usually send replacementsbefore they withdraw the Service. Well, lay on, MacDuff, for the greater gloryof the Empire!" 

I wasn't going to admit he had me, but I couldn't think of anything to say tothat, so I shut up. The gloom-birds were probably around before that stuff waswritten, but civilization was still going on, though there were rumors aboutthings back on Earth. But somehow, he always managed to make me start smellingold attics piled high with rubbish and beginning to mold. I turned and lookedsideways, just as the first outskirts of an old canal swung into view. 

They still call them canals, at least, though even the old-time astronomersknew they weren't, before Mars was ever reached. But they must have been quitesomething, ten or fifteen thousand years ago, when the V'nothi built the bigearthenware pipelines thousands of miles across the planet to section it andbreak up the sand-shifts that were ruining it. The big osmotic pumps werestill working after a fashion, and there was a trickle of moisture flowingeven yet, leaking out into the bleeder lines and keeping the degenerate scrubtrees going in fifty-mile swaths around them. 

The V'nothi had disappeared before the Pyramids were put up, leaving onlypictures of themselves in the ruins, looking like big, good-natured Vikings,
complete to brawn and winged helmets. Their women folk must have been reallysomething, even with fur all over them. Archaeologists were still swearingevery time they looked at those pictures and wondered what men on horsebackwere doing on Mars, and why no bones had ever been found! Some of them wereeven guessing that the V'nothi were Earthmen, maybe from an early peak ofcivilization we remembered in the Atlantis myths. But even if they were, therewas a lot about them to drive a man nuts without 

worrying about their origins. If you ask me, they were just plain domesticatedanimals for some other race. Still, whoever the real boss was, it must havebeen quite a world in their time. 

Even the canal-trees weren't natural; no other plants on Mars had bellowsgrowing out of them to supercharge themselves with air, ozone, and traces ofwatervapor. Even over the drone of the tractor motors, I could hear the dullmutter of their breathing. And at sundown, when they all got together in one 


long, wild groan . . . well, when I first heard that, I began to have dreamsabout what the master race was, though I'm not exactly imaginative. Now I'molder, and just don't know—nor much care. 

But the air was drier and thinner here, where they desiccated it, andStanislaus was breathing it with a sort of moral rectitude about him, andnodding as if he liked it. "Dust of Babylon, eh, Major? They went up a longway once, farther in some ways than we've climbed yet. In a thousand years orless they pulled themselves up to our sciences, dropped them, and beganworking on what we'd call sheer magic. Sometimes, just thinking of what therecords hint at scares me. They built themselves up to heaven, before thecurse of bigness struck them down; and being extremists, it wasn't just aretreat, but a final rout." 

"Meaning we're due for the same, 'Laus?" I always did like the way hepronounced his name, to rhyme with house. 

"No, Major; we're not the same—we retreat. Nineveh, Troy, Rome—they've gone,
but the periphery always stays to hibernate and come out into anotherspringtime. An empire decays, but it takes a long time dying, and so farthere's always been a certain amount passed on to the next surge ofyouthfulness. We've developed a racial phoenix complex. But of course youdon't believe the grumblings of a gloomy Slav who's just bitter that his oldempire is one of the later dust heaps?" 

"No," I told him. "I don't." 

He got up, knocking ashes off his parka with long, flickering fingers, and hisvoice held an irritating chuckle. "Stout fella, pride of the Empire, and allthat! I congratulate you, Major, and dammit, I envy you." And he was over thetreads and running toward where the General's tractor had stopped, like along-drawn-out cat. If he hadn't had the grace of a devil, his tongue wouldhave gotten him spitted on a rapier years before. 

I didn't dwell on even such pleasant thoughts. The men had stopped singing,
and the first reaction of forced cheer was over. They 

were good joes, all in all, but after the long years at the post among thetownspeople, they couldn't help being human. So I dropped back to the end ofthe line and kept my eyes peeled for any that might suddenly decide to developengine trouble and lag behind. It's always the first day and night that arethe hardest. 

Their grumbling sounded normal enough when we pulled off the trail away fromthe tree-mutterings, well after sundown, and I felt better; it's when theystop grousing that you have to watch them. All the same, I made them dig in alot deeper than we needed, though it gets cold enough to freeze a man solid atnight. They were sweating and stepping up the power in their aspirators beforeI was satisfied, and the berylite tent tops barely stuck up over the sand. 

That would give them something trivial to beef about, and work their musclesdown to good condition for sleeping. A good meal and a double ration of grogwould finish the trick nicely, and I'd already given orders for that—whichleft me nothing to do but go in where Stanislaus was sprawled out on a cot,
dabbling with his food and nodding in time to the tent aspirator's variations. 

"Nice gadget, that—efficient," he commented, and the pinched grin was on his 


face. "Of course, the air's thick enough to breathe when a man's not working,
but it's still a nice thing to have." 

I knew what he meant, of course. The old-timers had done a lot of foolishthings, like baking out enough oxygen to keep the air pressure up almost toEarth normal. But it wasn't economical, and we were modern enough to get alongwithout such nonsense. While I ate, I told him so, along with some good adviceabout how to get on well with Emperors. Besides, it was a damn-sight betteraspirator than they'd had in the pioneer days. 

I might as well have saved my breath. He waited until I ran down, and noddedamiably. "Absolutely, absolutely. And very well put, Major. As the Romans saidwhen Theodoric's Goths gave them orders, we're modern and up-to-date. Being ofthe present time, we're automatically modern. As for the Emperor, I wouldn'tthink of blaming him for what's inevitable, though I'd like a chance to arguethe point with him, if I didn't have a certain fondness for my neck. Meantime,
Mars rebuilds the seals in its houses and puts in little wind machines. Andbehold, all was vanity and a striving after vrindl You really should readEcclesiastes. Well, sleep tight, Major!" 

He ducked under a blanket and was snoring in less than five minutes. I nevercould sleep well under a tin tent with a man who snores; and it was worse thistime, somehow, though I finally did drop off. 

We were dug out and ready to march in the morning when the General's schemebore fruit; our deserters showed up over the dunes, hot-footing it down on us.
They must have spotted my tractor, because they didn't waste any time incoming up to me. The damned fools! Naturally, they had to bring the two womenalong with them, instead of dumping them near town. They must have been stinkodrunk when they started, though the all-night drive had sobered them up—thedrive plus half freezing to death and imagining Torrakhi behind every bush. 

I'd never seen those two brig-birds salute with quite such gusto, though, asthey hopped down, and Stanislaus' amused snort echoed my sentiments. But thebig guy started the ball rolling, with only a dirty look at the Slav. "Sir, wecouldn't help being AWOL, we . . ." 

"Were caught by Torrakhi, of course," the General's smooth voice filled inbehind me, and I stepped out of the picture on the double. "Very clever of youto escape, tractors and all! Unfortunately, there were no Torrakhi; themessage your receiver was designed to unscramble was a trap, based on theassumption that you'd rather take your chances with us than with a maraudingband of nomads infilter-ing around you. I suppose I could have you shot; andif I hear one sniveling word from you, I will. Or I could take you back toEarth in chains." 

His lips pressed out into a thin, white line, and his eyes flicked over toStanislaus for a bare second. "You wouldn't like that. There's a new Emperor,
not the soft one we had before. I served under him once . . . and I rather 
suspect he'd reward me for bringing you back with us, after the proper modernImperial fashion of gratitude. However, for the good of the Fifth, you'realready listed as fatalities. Sergeant, do you know these women?" 

"Their names are on our books, sir." 

"Quite so. And they knew what they were mixed up in. Very well, leave themtheir side arms, but fill the tractor and lorry they returned with some of 


your men, and prepare to break camp. You've already forgotten all this; andthat goes for the men, as well!" He swung on his heel and mounted his tractorwithout another look at the deserters, who were just beginning to realize whathe'd meant. 

Stanislaus elected to ride with me as we swung back toward the canal road,
watching the four until the dunes swallowed them. Then he shrugged and lit hiscigarette. "Not orthodox, Major, but effective; you can stop worrying aboutdesertions. And take it from me, it was the right thing to do; I happen toknow—rather well, in 

fact—why our precise and correct leader thought it wise to fake the books. ButI won't bore you with it. As to those four—well, some of the pioneers were upagainst worse odds, but de mortuis nil nisi bonum. Nice morning, don't youthink?" 

It was, as a matter of fact, and we were making good time. The trail swungout, heading due south now, and away from the canal, and the sands were nolonger cluttered with the queer pits always found around the canal-trees. Bynoon, we'd put a hundred more miles behind us, and the men were hardening intothe swing of things, though they still weren't doing the singing I like tohear on the march—the good, clean filth that's somehow the backbone of Servicemorale. I sent a couple of tractors out to scout, just to break the monotony,
though there wouldn't be anything to see so near the end of the desert. 

Surprisingly, however, they hadn't been gone ten minutes when the report cameback: Torrakhi to the left flank! A moment later, we were snapping into atight phalanx and hitting up a rise where we could see; but by then we knewthat there was no danger. They were just a small band, half a mile away,
jolting along on their llama-mounts at an easy lope. Then they spotted us andbeat back behind the dunes and out of sight. A small marauding band, turningback north from sacking some fool outlier's farm, probably. 

But it was unusual to see them so far south. We'd never been able to eliminate 
them entirely, any more than the V'nothi before us had, but we'd kept the wildquasi-human barbarians in line, pretty much. And now we were swinging back tothe trail again, leaving them unchecked to grow bold in raiding; there wasn'tanything else we could do, since they hadn't attacked and we were underImperial seal. Well, maybe the Second Command would get them for us sometime.
I hoped so. 

Stanislaus might say what he would, but he was still Service, and it had hithim, too. "Notice the long rifle they pulled? What make would you say?" 

"Renegade pirates on Callisto, it looked like, at a guess. But the exilescouldn't get past the Out Fleet to trade with Torrakhi!" 

He flipped his cigarette away and turned to face me, dead serious and quietabout it. "The Out Fleet's just a propaganda myth, Major! They pulled it backbefore I—uh, left Earth." 

He couldn't know that, and I had no business believing him; yet somehow, I wassure he did know, and whatever else he was, he was not a liar. But that wouldmean that the Earth-Mars trade. . . 

"Exactly," he said, as if he'd read the thought. "And now we're going back tohelp put down a minor little uprising in the Empire, so I hear. Write your own 


ticket!" 

But even if it were true, it didn't prove anything. Sure, it looked bad, butI've learned you can't judge from half-knowledge. A lot of times when I'vegone out swearing at the orders, I've come back alive because they weren't thekind I'd have given. Heck, even if the mesotron rifle was Callistan, there wasno telling how old it was; maybe they'd pulled the Out Fleet back for thesound reason that it wasn't needed. But it did look odd, their keeping up thepretense. 

We camped that night at an old abandoned fort dating back to pioneer days, andthen shoved on in the morning through little hamlets and the beginning ofsettled land. The people looked fairly hard and efficient, but it waspleasant, after the desert, and the men seemed more cheerful. Here the roadwas kept surfaced and the engines went all out. A little later, we took thegrousers off, and by the time another night had passed, we were in well-
settled country. From then on, it was all soft going and the miles droppedaway as regular as clockwork, though I missed the swish of the sand under thetreads. 

As we went on, the land and the people got softer, with that comfortable lookI'd missed up where Torrakhi are more than things to scare children with. Andthe farms were bigger and better kept. For that matter, I couldn't see a manworking with a rifle beside him. The Service had done that. When we first hitMars, in the pioneer days, there hadn't been a spot on its face where a mancould close both eyes. Now even the kids went running along the road alone.
Oh, sure, there were some abandoned villas, here and there, but I don't thinkthe nobles were too much missed. 

And that was civilization and progress, whatever Stanislaus thought about it.
Let them pull the Out Fleet back and call in the Fifth. As long as Mars hadspots on it like this, it didn't look too bad for the Empire. I wanted tothrow it in the Slav's face, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. He'd havesome kind of answer. Better let sleeping dogs lie. 

And besides, he was riding with the General again, and even at night he wasbusy writing in some big book and not paying attention to anything else. In away, it was all to the good. Still, I dunno. At least, when he was spoutingout his dogma, I had a chance to figure up some kind of answer to myself.
There wasn't much I could do about the look on his face. 

But I noticed that we always seemed to make camp about the time we were wellaway from the towns, and it was something to think over, along with the guffthat had begun among the men. It looked as if the General meant to keep usaway from any rumors going around among the ciss, and that was odd;
ordinarily, civilian scuttlebutt means nothing to the Service. 

And now that the novelty had worn off, there was something wrong about thenumber of farms we'd pass that were abandoned and that had been for a longtime. There were little boarded-up stores in some of the villages, and once wewent by a massive atomic by-products plant, dead and forgotten. And thesoftness on the people's faces began to look less pretty; one good-sized bandof Torrakhi could raise hob with a whole county, even without mesotron riflesfrom Callisto. 

The one time I did speak to a native, I had no business doing it. We'd beenrolling along, with me at the rear for the moment, and there was this fine



looking boy of about twelve walking along the road. What got me was the songhe was singing and the way he came to a Service salute at the sight of us.
Well, the General wasn't in sight, and the kid took my slowing up as a hint tohop onto the lug rail. 

"Fifth, isn't it, sir?" 

"Right. But where the deuce did you learn that ditty and the proper way toaddress a noncom?" 

He grinned the way healthy kids know how, before they grow old enough toforget. "Gramps was in the Fifth when they raised the siege of Bharene, sir,
and he told me all about it before he died. Gee, it must have been great whenhe was young!" 

"And now?" 

"Aw, now they say you're going back to Earth, and Gramps wouldn't have likedthat. He was a Martian, like me. . . . Look, I live up there, so I gotta go.
Thanks for the lift, Sergeant!" 

So even the kids knew we were going back, and now we were just another ServiceCommand, instead of the backbone of Mars. Strange, I hadn't thought of what itwould mean, going back where people had never heard of us before. But I couldsee where the General was right in not letting us mix with people here.
Dammit, we were still the Fifth, and nothing could change that, Mars or Earth,
Emperor or Torrakhi! 

We didn't spend too much time looking at the country after that, though itgrew even prettier as we went on. The tractors were beginning to carbon upunder the fuel we had to requisition, and we were 

busy nursing them along and watching for trouble. At the post, we'd had ourown purifying plant to get the gum out of the vegetable fuels, but here we hadto take potluck. And it was a lot worse than I'd expected. But then, a mantends to gloss over his childhood and think things were better then. I dunno.
Maybe it had always been that bad. 

Anyhow, we made it, in spite of a few breakdowns. It was dusk when the lightsof Marsport showed up, and we went limping through the outskirts. When we hitthe main drag, a motorcop ran ahead of us with his siren open, though therewasn't any need. I couldn't help wondering where the cars were, and how theymanaged to dig up so many bicycles. We must have looked like the devil, sincewe'd pushed too fast to bother much with shining up, but there were somecheers from the crowds that assembled, and a few women's faces with the lookof not having seen uniforms in years. The men woke up at that, yelling theusual things, but I could feel their disappointment in the city. 

Then we halted, and Stanislaus came back, while a fat and stuffy little man innoble's regalia strode up to the General's tractor, fairly sniffing the dirton our gear as he came. Well, he could have used a better shave himself, and alittle less hootch would have improved his dignity. The Slav chuckled.
"Methinks this should be good, unless the O.M. has lost his touch. Flip theswitch, Major; I left the radio turned on." 

But no sound came out of it except a surprised grunt from the fat official ashe looked at the odd-patterned ring on the General's finger. I never knew what 


it stood for, but all the air went out of the big shot's sails, and hecouldn't hand over the official message fast enough after that. He was moppingsweat from his face when the crowd swallowed him. I've seen a bust corporalact that way when he suddenly remembered he was pulling rank he no longer had. 

"Don't bother cutting off yet, Sergeant," the radio said quietly, and it wasmy turn to grin. Stanislaus should have known better than to try puttinganything over on the General. "Ummm, I'm going to be tied up with officialbusiness at the Governor's, so you'll have to go ahead. Know where theauxiliary port is? Good. Bivouac there, and put the men to policing themselvesand the hangars. No passes. That's all." 

He moved to a waiting car, leaving the tractor to his driver, and we went onagain, out through the outskirts and past the main spaceport; that was dark,
and I couldn't tell much about it, but I remembered the mess of the oldauxiliary field. They'd built it thirty miles 

out in barren land to handle the overflow during the old colonizing period,
and it had been deserted and weed-grown for years, with hangars falling apart.
It was worse than I'd remembered, though there were some lights on and a groupof Blue Guards to let us in and direct us to the left side of the field. 

Some clearing had been done, but there was work enough to keep us all busy asbeavers, and there would be for days, if we stayed that long. At least it gaveme a good excuse for announcing confinement to grounds, though they took iteasier than I'd expected. It seemed they already knew in some way. And at lastI was finished with giving orders and had a chance to join the Slav ininspecting the ships I'd already noticed down at the end of the field. 

I'd seen the like of the double-turret cruiser before, but the two big oneswere different, even in the dim lights of the field. They were something outof the history books, and no book could give any idea of their size. Therocket crews about them, busy with their own affairs, were like ants runningaround a skyscraper by comparison. Either could have held the whole Commandand left room for cargo besides. 

"So we're waiting for the Second Command to go back with us, 'Laus?" 

He jerked his head back from a reverent inspection of the big hulks and noddedat me slowly. "You improve, Major, though you forgot to comment on the need ofa cruiser between Mars and Earth. . . . Two hundred years! And those ships arestill sounder than the hunk of junk sent out to protect them. There was a timewhen men knew how to build ships—and how to use them. Now there are only fourleft out of all that were built. Any idea where the other two are?" 

"Yeah." I'd failed to recognize them because of their size, but it hadn't beenquite dark enough to conceal them completely. "Back at the other port wepassed, picking up the South Commands. Dammit, 'Laus, did you have to infectme with your pessimism?" 

"You're going back to Earth, Major," he answered, as if that were explanationenough. "The optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist the hole; but you get abetter view of things through a hole than through a hunk of sweetened dough.
And, as Havelock Ellis put it, the place where optimism most flourished wasthe lunatic asylum. Come on back and I'll lend you Ecclesiastes while I finishmy book." 


And I was just dumb enough to read it. But I might have had the same nightmareanyway. I'd gotten a good look at the faces of the rocket gang. 

In the morning, I was too busy bossing the stowing of our gear to do muchthinking, though. Even with maps of the corridors, I'd have been lost in theship without the help of one of the pilots, a bitter-faced young man whoseemed glad to fill his time, but who refused to talk beyond the barenecessities. When the General came back at noon, the men were all quarteredinside, except for those who were detailed to help load the collection ofboxes that began to come out from Marsport. 

He nodded curt approval and went to the radio in his cabin. And about an hourlater, I looked up to see the Second Command come in and go straight to thesecond ship, a mile away. They could have saved themselves the trouble ofavoiding us, as far as I was concerned. I had no desire to compare notes withthem. But I guess it was better for the men, and it was a lot easier thanposting guards overnight to see they didn't mix. A hell of a way to run theService, I thought; but of course it wasn't the Service anymore—just theSecond and Fifth Commands, soon to be spread around Earth! 

It was after taps when they brought the civilians aboard, but I was stillenjoying the freedom of second in command, and I was close enough to get agood look at them and the collection of special tools they were bringing alongwith the rest of their luggage. I'd always figured the technical crafts cameout from automated Earth to the outlands where their skills were still needed. 
But that seemed to be just another sign that the old order was changing. Iturned to make talk with the pilot who was beside me, and then thought betterof it. 

But for once, he was willing to break his silence, though he never took hiseyes off the little group that was filing in. "They're needed, Sergeant!
Atomic technicians are in demand again, along with plutonium for the Earthreactors—or ... I suppose you guessed that's what the rear trucks arecarrying, and they'll be loading it between hulls tonight—all that can bestowed safely. Of course, I'm not supposed to talk—but I was born here, andit's not like the last job we had, ferrying back the Venus Commands. Care tojoin me in getting drunk?" 

It was an idea. Plutonium is particularly valuable for bombs, for which it'sstill the best material. And atom bombs are the messiest, lousiest, and mostinefficient weapons any fighting man ever swore at. They're only good forruining the land until you can't finish a decent mopping up, and poisoning theatmosphere until your own people begin dying. Not a single one had beendropped in the five centuries since we came up with the superior energyweapons. So 

now we were carrying the stuff from Mars's reactors back to Earth, where theyalready had the accumulated stuff from all their piles. 

But I caught a signal from the car the General was using as I turned, and Ichanged my mind. I was in the mood for Stanislaus now, and whiskey's a prettypoor mental cathartic, anyway. This time I could see that the information Ipoured out at him wasn't something he already knew. 

"So. Even so are the sons of men snared in an evil time, when it fallethsuddenly upon them." He let it sink in slowly, then shrugged. "Well, maybeit'll be faster that way. But it won't matter to me. I'm due in Marsport to 


attend my funeral—a lovely casket, I understand, though it's a pity we're sopressed for time I can't have military honors. Only the simple dignity ofcivilian rites. Thought you might like to bid me fond adieu, for old times'sake." 

"Yeah, sure. And bring me back a bottle of the same." 

He shook his head gently, and the damned fool's voice was serious. "I wish Icould, Major. I'd like nothing better than having you along to listen to mytheories on our racial phoenix complex. But I've done the next best thing inleaving the book that's my labor of love in your cabin. All right, I wasribbing you, let's say, and I'm being transferred out to the Governor'sservice by special orders. Does that make sense to you?" 

It did, put that way. It meant that after all the years of wishing he'd clamup, I was going to miss him plenty, now that I'd been converted, and I'dprobably sit alone biting my tongue to keep from spouting the same brand ofpessimism. But I wasn't much good at saying it, and he cut me off in themiddle. 

"Then bite it off! That stuff won't go, back there, though you're better offfor having found out in advance. Trust the General to see you through. He madea mistake once, but he's wiser now. Forget Ecclesiastes and remember a jingleof Kipling's instead: Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many andmighty are they; but the head and the hoof of the Law, and the haunch and thehump is— Obey! Betray rhymes as well—but it takes a lot more background andpractice. Now beat it, before I really start preaching." 

I didn't need to hunt up the pilot; I had a bottle of Martian canal juice ofmy own in the cabin. But I'd consumed more of the book than the bottle whenmorning came and a knock sounded outside. 

The General came in when I grunted, his face pinched with fatigue, and hiseyes red with lack of sleep. He nodded at the book, 

dropped onto my cot, and poured himself a generous slug before he looked up atme. 

"A remarkable book, Bill, by a remarkable man. But you know that by now.
Dynamite, of course, but something we'll have to smuggle in to save for apossible posterity. And stop looking so damned surprised! Any man Stanislaustrusted with that book is my equal or better, as far as I'm concerned. Afterwe land, I have ways of seeing you get knighthood and a Colonel's rank, soyou're practically an officer, anyhow. And I'm not acting as either General orDuke—just a messenger boy for the late deceased Stanislaus Korzynski. He diedof canal fever day before yesterday, you know." 

It was coming too thick and fast, and I didn't answer that. I reached for thebottle and poured a shot down my throat without bothering with a glass. TheGeneral held out his glass, watched me fill it, and downed the shot beforegoing on again. "Not much of a Serviceman, am I, Bill? But it has to be thatway. Nobody knows the name he used, but there are plenty on Earth who rememberhis face. Or haven't you figured out yet who he was from the book?" 

"I've had my suspicions," I admitted. "Only I dunno whether I'm crazy or hewas." 


"Neither. You're right, he's the supposedly assassinated Prince StelliusAsiaticus, rightful ruler of the Empire! Here's a note he sent you." 

There wasn't much to it: 

Friend Major-It was over the hill for me, after all. If you have children, asI intend to, pass on my new name to them, and someday our offspring may gettogether and discuss the phoenix bird. 

Elmer C. Clesiastes 

"The phoenix," the General muttered over my shoulder while he reached for thebottle. "Now what the deuce did he mean by that?" 

"What is it, anyway?" 

"A legendary bird of Grecian mythology—the only one of its kind. It lived fora few hundred years, then built itself a funeral pyre and sat fanning theflames with its wings until it was consumed. After that, a new bird hatchedout of the ashes and started all over again. That's why they used it for thesymbol of immortality." 

Below us, the rockets rumbled tentatively and then bellowed out, while theforce of the jets crushed us back against the wall. Beyond 

the porthole, Mars dropped away from us, as the Empire turned back to itsnest. But I wasn't thinking much of that, impressive though it was. 

Somehow, I was going to have the children Stanislaus had mentioned, and I'dlive long enough to see that they remembered the new name he'd chosen, atombombs or no bombs. Because I knew him at last, and the pessimist was a prince,
all right—the Prince of Optimists. 

The General and I sat toasting him and discussing the phoenix legend andcivilization's ups and downs while Mars changed from a world to a round ballin the background of space. It wasn't military or proper, but we felt muchbetter by the time we found and confiscated the second bottle. 

Campbell rejected "Shadows of Empire" for a reason that came as a surprise tome. He felt it was too moody. He liked it, he felt the writing was good, andit was a perfectly good story, but not for him. He'd apparently run severalmood pieces, and the readers were reacting a bit against them. He wantedstraight stories now. 

The story eventually sold to Robert Lowndes at Columbia Publications, and thepresent title is his. But before then, Damon Knight had seen it in my agent'soffice, and had told me flatly that it should never be sold. It was nothingbut a rewrite of Stephen Vincent Bench's "Last of the Legions." 

I hadn't realized the similarity, though I had read the Bene"t story yearsbefore. I pulled it out and read it again, and I could see what Damon meant. Ididn't think it was too close—the whole final section was completelydifferent, giving the story a different intent. Ben6t was showing nothing butthe dissolution of an empire; I was trying to show that empires don't matter—
men somehow always come back again. And my Stanislaus is more than the Greek-
chorus figure of Benet's story. 


But I kept it off the market for a long time, until Bob Lowndes asked if I hadany more around. Then I gave it to him, with a full account of Damon'scriticism. Bob read it, and he too could see what Damon meant. But he agreedwith me that it was quite sufficiently different to justify publishing. Hepaid me $65 for it, and no reader complained, though a few spotted thesimilarities. (Bene't has been a lot more closely imitated in other cases. Idon't know how many stories derive from his "Waters of Babylon.") 

Anyhow I left Campbell's office and went home to begin at once on anotherstory. I wrote three altogether in the next three days, and took them all inat once. 

The first of these was in direct answer to John Campbell's suggestion thatstraight stories were now the ones he wanted. It didn't have a trace of moodin the whole 6,300 words. I called it "Simila-crum Limited," but it waspublished as "Unreasonable Facsimile," and I have no quarrel with that title. 

21. Unreasonable Facsimile 
(by Lester del Rey) 

Max Fleigh's heavy jowls relaxed and he chuckled without humor as he examinedthe knots that bound the man at his feet. Quite impersonally, he planted thetoe of his boot in Curtis' ribs, listened to the muffled grunt of pain, anddecided that the gag was effective. For once, Slim had done a good job, andthere was nothing wrong. It was probably unnecessary, anyway, but there couldbe no bungling when the future of the Plutarchy was at stake. 

Incompetence had cost them an empire once, and there would be no thirdopportunity. The stupid democracies that had called themselves a World Unionhad colonized the planets and ruled them without plan. And when Mars, Venus,
and the Jovian Worlds had revolted and set up a Planet Council, all that Earthcould do was to come crawling to it, begging polite permission to join whatthey should have owned! 

But that had been before practical realists had kicked out the dreamers andset up the Plutarchy under an iron discipline that could implement its plans.
Now they were heading back toward their lost empire, colonizing the asteroidsand establishing claims that gave them a rough rule over the outlaws who hadretreated there. With the Council softened up by years of cautious propaganda,
they were in a position to ask and receive a Mandate over the scatteredplanetoids. 

It was the opening wedge, and all they needed. Once the asteroids 

could be given spurious independence to seek a Council seat, they would beready to strike at the Jovian Worlds. With proper incidents, propaganda, andquislings, plus the planetoids to separate Jupiter from Mars, there could beno question of the outcome. Earth would gain a majority of three votes, andthe Council would be the basis of a new and greater Plutarchy. 

Fleigh gave the bound body of Curtis another careless kick and went forward tothe cabin, where the lanky form of his companion was hunched dourly over thecontrols of the little spacecraft. "How's it going, Slim?" 

"So-so." Slim ejected a green stream of narcotic juice and grinned sourly.
"But I still say we been crowdin' our luck too hard!" 


"Rot! Lay out the right moves, cover all possibilities, outmaneuver yourenemies, and you don't need luck! Ever play chess?" 

"Nope, can't say I did. Played the horses on Mars, though, time we h'isted theEuphemeron. Won, too—after I bought my lucky ghost charm; been in the chipsever since!" Slim's grin widened, but his face remained stubbornlyunconvinced. 

Fleigh chuckled. If the planetoid outlaws depended on magic, while the Councilvisionaries spouted sentimental twaddle, so much the better for the realists.
"Charms don't work in politics, Slim. We have to anticipate resistance. Andyou saw what happened to our fine Martian Councilor Curtis when he decided toexpose us and ruin the Mandate!" 

"Yeah." Slim's yellow teeth chewed thoughtfully on his cud. "S'pose he'dstayed on Mars, though?" 

"We'd have dropped hints of just the information he needed on Ceres andtrapped him there—as we did. Checkmate!" 

"Or check-out. So when he don't come back, they smell a rat—an' I ain'tplannin' on bein' around to chew rat poison. My granpappy killed a Counciloronce—poor granpappy! . . . Hey, there's the rock!" 

There was no outward sign of life on the barren little planetoid. But as theship came to a grinding stop in a narrow gorge, a concealing shield snapped onover them, and a crudely painted sign blazed out in phosphorescent gaudinesson one rocky wall: 

SIMILACRA, LTD. 

Mccyoq—Aeivoq TEKTCOV 

Specialist: MipriCTiq KCU ZccpKccanoq 

Fleigh came out of the lock first and paused while he waited for Slim toshoulder the tarpaulin-covered Curtis and follow. He grinned and pointed atthe sign. "Magician and wonder-worker; specialist in imitation and mockery. Ilooked it up on Mars, so don't go thinking it's some kind of spell. . . . Nowif the old fool will open up . . ." 

"Then why ain't English good enough for him? I don't go for that magic stuff,
Max. We been—" 

But the Sigma was already swinging back on its tips to reveal a passagethrough the rock. A little, shriveled man in tattered shorts and thick-lensedglasses stood motioning them in impatiently, and the door closed silently whenthey obeyed his summons. They headed down a side passage toward a ramp and thesound of busy humming. 

Greek threw open a door and pointed to a table where the exact duplicate ofCouncilor Curtis lay, with an identical Jeremiah Greek fussing over it andhumming through his nose. The guide dropped to a bench and began removing hischest and inserting a fresh power pack between two terminals. 

Slim's mouth dropped open and his burden slipped from his back to the floor 


with a sodden thump, while he stared from one Greek to the other, and back tothe first. His fingers were stretched in the ancient sign of the horns as hewatched the changing of accumulators, and his voice was hoarse and uncertain.
"A damned robot!" 

"Not a robot—a similacrum," denied the owl-eyed man who must have been theoriginal of the metal creature. "I'm a mimesist, not a creator. A robot hasindependent life, but that's only a limited copy of my memories and habits,
like this phony Curtis. And those tapes you brought me, Fleigh—they stink!" 

He gestured toward the spools of the marvelous wire that could recordelectromagnetic waves of any type of frequency up to several millionmegacycles. In one corner, a stereo-player was running one off, but the visionscreen was fuzzy, and the voice part was a mass of gibberish. 

Fleigh scowled at it, and turned back suspiciously to Greek. "Sure you knowhow to use them? Those were made by—" 

"By a fool who had a shield leak in his scanner! Only a few were any good. Iwas using pancyclic wire before you ever saw a stereo-record. Where do youthink I impress my similacrum's memory—on a real brain? It takes miles of wireto feed the selectrons! I did the besl I could, but . . . Here, take a look!"
He reached into the false Curtis' mouth and did something that made the figuresit up suddenly. 

Max went over and muttered into the thing's ear, but after the first fewanswers it lapsed into sullen silence, and he swung back toward Greek. "I toldyou Curtis had to be perfect! This wouldn't fool a Jovian!" 

"And I told you I wasn't Jehovah—I specialize in mechanical imitations," Greekanswered shortly. "Bum tape, bum similacrum. If you brought me some decentreels, I'll see what I can do, though." 

Fleigh grunted and yanked the tarpaulin off the real Curtis. At the sight, newinterest appeared on Greek's face, and he came over to examine the Councilor,
but stopped after a cursory look had shown that the man was still alive. 

He nodded. "That's more like it, Fleigh. I'll set up an encealo-graph andideoform analyzer and record directly off his mind—it's better than feedingimpressions from tapes, anyway, though I always used an editing circuitbefore. Okay, you'll get something his own mother would swear was perfect." 

"When?" 

"Depends. Narrow-band analysis would take a couple weeks, but it'd bepermanent. If I run an all-wave impressor in, the tapes will be barelyaffected. I can do it in ten, twelve hours, but your similacrum will begin tofade in a week, and wash out completely in a month." 

"Suits me," Fleigh decided. "We won't need him more than a few days. Anyplacewhere Slim and I can catch up on our sleep while you finish?" 

Greek's double came to life at a signal and led them down a series of rockcorridors to a room that lacked nothing in comfort, then went silently out andleft them alone. To Fleigh's relief, Slim tested the bed in sour displeasure,
pulled a blanket off, and rolled up on the floor, leaving the flotationmattress unoccupied. He had as little use for such luxuries as his boss had 


for his presence in the same bed. Max climbed in and adjusted the speegee dialto perfect comfort with a relaxed grunt of pleasure. 

He had no intention of sleeping, though, while things that concerned him weregoing on. Three hours later, he heaved out and slipped silently down the rockyhalls on sponge-rubber slippers. But his training had covered the stupidity ofspy-stereos, and there was nothing stealthy about his entry into thelaboratory. Greek looked up from a maze of wires and gadgets with faintsurprise but no suspicion. 

"Couldn't sleep," Fleigh volunteered apologetically. "I was wondering if youhad any barbiturates?" 

A few minutes later he took the tablet from Greek's double and turned back 
down the hallway with a muttered thanks. He had learned all he wanted to know.
Both Greeks and Curtises were present and accounted for where they belonged,
and the mimesist was busy about his work; there was no funny businessinvolved. Actually, he had expected none, but it never did any harm to makesure of such things when dealing with men who were outside the law of eitherthe Plutarchy or the Council. 

Slim was snoring and kicking about on the floor when he returned, and hegrinned as he plopped back onto the mattress. The outlaws were useful enoughnow. But once Earth took over the Mandate, something would have to be doneabout them; too many were the wrong sort to fit into the Plutarchy. Fleighstretched with a self-satisfied yawn and slipped into well-earned rest. 

Greek's similacrum wakened them in the morning and led them back to thelaboratory, where the scientist was waiting beside the imitation Curtis. Thereal Councilor must have been drugged, for he lay unconscious on one of thetables. Fleigh wasted only a casual glance at him, and then turned to the newsimilacrum as Greek flipped it on. 

This time his tests were longer, and there were no sullen silences from theimitation. Its responses were quick, sure, and completely correct; the realCurtis could have done no better, and Fleigh stepped back at last and noddedhis approval. He'd demanded a perfect similacrum, and it had been delivered. 

"You're sure it has a good strong desire to live?" he asked briefly as hefished into his bag for the little prepared relay that was ready. 

Greek smiled faintly. "They all have that—they couldn't pass as normal menwithout it. And if your dimensions were correct, you should have no troubleinstalling your relay." 

He stripped aside the blouse, to reveal a small cavity in the back of thesimilacrum, with a bundle of little wires which Fleigh hooked onto the relay.
It slipped in and locked firmly. Greek undipped the tiny switch from insidethe machine's mouth. The animation within the similacrum disappeared at once,
to come on again as a switch in Fleigh's bag was pressed. A little circle ofthe pancyclic wire strip moved over a scanner inside the bag, sending out acomplex wave, while a receiver in the similacrum's back responded by closingthe 

relay. Then the animation was cut off again, and came back at once on a secondpressure of the switch. 


"Attempted removal of the relay will destroy all circuits, just as youordered," Greek assured the operative. "Well?" 

Fleigh's face mirrored complete satisfaction. "You get the fire emeralds, aspromised!" 

He reached into the bag and came out with a little bundle, a grin stretchedacross his face. It stayed there while Greek moved forward quickly, to staggerback with a chopped-off scream as the slugs poured into his face and explodedhis head into a mangled mess of blood and gray tissue! 

For a second, the Greek double moved forward, but it turned with a shriek andwent down the hall at a clumsy run as Fleigh ripped the smoking gun from thepackage. He let it go. Curtis' head dissolved under a second series of slugs,
and only the similacrum of the Councilor was left in the laboratory with thetwo men. 

Slim closed his mouth slowly and reached for his green narcotic, but he madeno protest. The other moved about, gathering up combustibles and stacking themin a corner, then setting fire to the pile. 

"Which takes care of almost everything, Slim," Fleigh said calmly. They headedout and down the hall toward their ship, with the imitation Curtis movingquietly along behind. Another slug from the gun destroyed the lock on the bigSigma, and they pushed through, out into the rocky gorge. "Nothing left tochance, and a perfect red herring to cover up Curtis' disappearance." 

Slim ducked into the lock and went forward to the controls. "Uh-huh. 
Granpappy'd sure of admired you, Max! Used to look just the same when hedrilled somebody he didn't like. ... All set for take-off?" 

"Forgetting anything, Slim?" 

The outlaw looked up in puzzled surprise, while Fleigh shook his head and wentover to the receiver. There was no sense in trying to teach the fool anything,
apparently, but at least he might have learned elementary caution from hismode of life. The Plutarch operative ripped out the tape from the illegal all-
wave recorder and slipped it into a playback slot, while slow comprehensioncrossed the other's face. 

But everything was in order, with the usual hash of faint signals on 

various 
li 
frequencies TherP wprp nn sionQ nf a «firm or rpcnnnop onri 
— •-' ~ — — o"— 
v^-v**^ . w£~ >J , UU^**A 

as would have been made by any attempt on Greek's part to double-cross himwith a call to the outside. He set the receiver to record, and 

went toward the rear cabin and the similacrum, while the ship blasted off andheaded toward Mars. 

The false Curtis was already seated at a table, and groping through a bag ofnotes the original Curtis had carried. It looked up as Fleigh came in,
grimaced, and went on organizing the papers before it. The operative dropped 


to a chair with his familiar humorless chuckle. 

"You realize your life is dependent on obedience, uh—Curtis?" 

"Would I have let you kill myself otherwise?" the thing asked grimly. "Leavethat control gadget of yours where I can get it, and you'll feel thedifference between my hands and mere flesh ones! But meantime, I'll cooperate, 
since I have no choice. I suppose you intend helping me with myspeech before the Council?" 

Fleigh's appreciation for the peculiar genius of Greek went up several points,
as he assented tersely. The thing was perfect, or so nearly so that it seemedto consider itself the real man. There would be no trouble on that score. As 
for the control bag—he had no intention of letting that out of his hands untilthe similacrum was turned off. 

It gestured toward the notes with a motion peculiar to Curtis. "You'd onlyruin anything you edited, Fleigh. I'm perfectly capable of writing the thingmyself, and it'll sound like me! But if I'm going to give you a clean sheetand not make the whole Council suspicious, I'll need more information than Ihave. I must have the whole picture, so that I can take care of all objectionswithout running counter to what some other Councilors may know already. Also,
I think you'd better learn to address me as Councilor Curtis!" 

"Quite so, Councilor," Fleigh agreed, and this time the amusement in his laughwas genuine. "Now if you'll tell me what you know of our plans and methods,
I'll fill in the blanks. But I want to see that speech, when you're finished." 

It was amazing, the amount of evidence Curtis had managed to accumulate in abrief week; or perhaps much of it had been in his hands before, and onlyneeded organizing against what they had let him find on Ceres. It was enoughto have ruined all hopes of Earth's getting the Mandate, and seriouslyendangered her relations with the Planet Council in addition. Fleigh made amental note to press for an investigation of some of the outland operatives ashe began filling in the missing links in the other's information. 

CnrHs tnnlc the facts rlnwn in a notebook, prim-faced and silent. 

-----i t_j 
, 

checked them back, and reached for the typewriter. The first part of thespeech he had meant to deliver needed but slight modification, 

and Fleigh read it over the similacrum's shoulder as it operated the machine.
Then the going grew tougher, and there were long pauses while the thingconsidered, revising a word here, or changing a paragraph there. Itdisregarded Fleigh's suggestions with the same contempt that would have beenon the real Councilor's face, and the operative began to realize that it wasjustified. When it came to writing speeches, he was only an amateur, and thiswas professional work. 

He was beginning to regret that the thing could have a life of only from aweek to ten days, when it finished; Earth could have used such a propagandist,
particularly one accepted on the Council as Mars's chief representative!
Curtis' speeches had always been good, but he had never realized that theman's talents would have been equally good on propaganda. It was hard to 


believe that this was fiction, as he listened to the calm, assured voicerunning through it, apparently reciting only the simple truth, and yetcoloring every word with some trick of oratory that seemed to make it glowwith virtue and integrity. 

"Perfect!" he commented when it was finished. He cut off the relay signal,
watched the similacrum slip to the floor, and went forward to the controlcabin with a full measure of satisfaction. Earth could not fail! 

And already the red disk of Mars was large and close on the view-plate. Fleighhadn't realized the time the writing of the speech had taken, but he did notregret a second of it as Slim began nursing the ship down through the thinatmosphere toward the Solar Center. 

The taste of coming victory was strong in Max Fleigh as he waited outside theMartian House the next day, but Slim was still glum and morose. Part of thatwas probably due to his orders to stay out of the usual outlaw haunts on theplanet, where the police might have picked him up and ruined the whole plan.
The rest, Fleigh decided, was just his natural fear of what he could notunderstand. 

The outlaw was grumbling and turning his lucky ghost charm over and over inhis palm. "Leavin' the thing run around this way! We been lucky, Max, buttain't reasonable to figger it'll hold! You shoulda let me tail him!" 

"Sure, Slim. People expect him to go around with you at his heels, no doubt!"
Fleigh spat dango seeds out of the open car window, and took another bite ofthe cool fruit before going on. "We have to let him circulate; no Councilorjust back from a two-week trip would hole up before this meeting, when he hadinstructions to pick up any last-minute details that might be coming in.
Besides, we're not dealing with Curtis now, but with a machine. And it knowswho its mas


ter is. The minute I cut the relay, or it gets ten miles away from me— nolife!" 

He spotted the similacrum coming down the steps and jumped out to open the cardoor. Slim grunted dourly, pulling his new chauffeur's cap farther down overhis forehead, but he took the curt orders from Curtis with no further protestsand headed the big car toward the Council Chambers. The Councilor passed overtwo slips of elaborate pasteboard and leaned back against the seat. 

"Passes for the two of you. Are you sure Slim knows what he's to do?" 

There was a disgusted sound from the front, but Fleigh ignored it. "He'dbetter; we've been over it often enough. But go ahead and make sure." 

The similacrum ticked off the points with incisive authority. The CouncilChamber was radiation-proof, and since Curtis would not be trusted with therelay signal, the success of the whole thing depended on Slim's behavior. Maxhad secured a duplicate of his signal generator which the outlaw was to useoutside the Assembly, while Fleigh went inside with his and waited. Theoperative had developed complete confidence in the ability of the falseCurtis, and he was sure of his own part. It was all up to Slim, but there wasno reason for him to fail, and he had always taken orders well enough before. 

Actually, it all went off with perfect smoothness. The guards passed him in 


after a careful scrutiny of his permit, and he carried the briefcase that heldthe generator up to the gallery and turned it on. Seconds later, thesimilacrum came through the big doorway, with only a slight flicker ofuncertainty as the antiradiation shield touched him and he passed from onegenerator to the other. 

Curtis walked along the aisle with the proper confidence and attention to hisfriends, presented his credentials for a purely perfunctory examination, andturned off into one of the little council rooms. Two of the other Martian 
Councilors followed him, and passed out of Fleigh's field of view, but he wasnot worried about that. Slim came slouching down the gallery stairs anddropped into a seat beside the operative, putting the duplicate generatorbetween his feet. 

"Satisfied?" 

"Perfect," Fleigh assured him. They would reverse it going out. After that,
Curtis would announce that he was leaving on a long trip to r<n-n,^r,^A^ nr,A4.ua., ,,,™,iA Ik,, «i>i^ <-~ j,v^«^Q «f 4-T,^ n;m:]n,».— -^'ik. 

^jyauj' 141V*U\^, dllU m\*J VVWUHJ U\j aul\* HJ UXJJ-'VyO\,
\JL Llll/ OllllllCLWi UAA1 VVllll 

out any parts left to show what he was. Then Curtis came back into the mainchamber. Apparently the 

Council had been waiting for his return, for the Sergeant at Arms waved fororder, and the meeting began, with almost no preliminaries. Earth brought upthe subject of the Mandate, and the head of the Venus Council began to come tohis feet. But Curtis was up first, and the Chair recognized him. 

Fleigh relaxed completely as the familiar words of the speech began to come tohim, while the Venusans glanced about in surprise, and then began to listen. Amoment later they were under the sway of his oratory. The single speech shoulddo it, since the question had been tentatively decided in favor of Earth atthe last meeting, pending Curtis' investigation. By night, the Mandate shouldbe a fait accompli, and Earth could begin moving out her mercenary legions inthe squat "mining" freighters. 

Fleigh had a pretty good idea of who would lead them. He'd been in line forpromotion for some time already, and the Plutarch had dropped hints of theoutcome of success. It would be good to leave the dubious position ofoperative and become a legally recognized governor of the mandated planetoids,
to settle down and begin organizing his own private little plans for thePlutarch's job! 

Slim nudged him with a bony knee, but Fleigh was too wrapped in his ownthoughts to bother until the other seized his elbow and hissed at him. Then hecame out of his daydreams. Something was going on—the Councilors were payingtoo careful attention, and the Earth Delegation didn't look right! In asecond, his mind was back on the speech, and the words came to a chillingfocus in his ears. 

". . . found the organization inconceivably complex. And yet the basic patternis old—old as the barbarism that prompted it. Gentlemen, I have only my wordas evidence now, but I can name names and give exact locations that willenable our Planetary Police to confirm every word of it before night falls on 


this meeting. The Plutarch of Earth, on the twentieth of April, forty-twoyears ago, gave the following orders, which I quote . . ." 

Fleigh grabbed for Slim's generator and yanked the button savagely, but stillthe damning words went on, detail piling on exact detail, while SecretServicemen moved forward to cut the speaker off from the Earth Delegates.
Their rudeness was an open declaration that Earth was immediately severed fromthe Council! Max ripped out the generator, crushing the delicate tubes in hishands. He was stamping on his own device at the same time, but the voice wenton unchecked! 

Down on the floor, Curtis looked upward without pausing in his 

damning list of evidence, found the operative's eye, and grinned. Then heresumed his normal gravity and went on! 

Slim's hands were trembling and fumbling over his charm. Fleigh practicallycarried him to the aisle and dragged him along as he made his way up theinfinite distance to the gallery door. Every step was made with theexpectation of a shouted order from Curtis that would send the big explosiveslugs tearing through him, but it did not come. Instead, there was only thequiet continuance of the speech and Slim's hoarse prayers to the ghosts of thecharm to save them. 

Surprisingly, the doors opened in the hands of the courteous guards, and thehall was before them, with no police in sight. Max cut Slim's babbled reliefoff with a crisp whisper. "We're not out of it, you fool! Ten to one, it's catand mouse, with us the losers. But if we're going to make use of the tenthchance, shut up! Walk, dammit, and grin!" 

There was another flight of stairs leading down, a long hall, and a seconddoor that opened promptly and politely as they neared it. Then the main stepsled down to the street. It was impossible that the similacrum could have givenno orders for their arrest; as impossible as that the relay could be tamperedwith! But the big car waited at the curb, and there were still no police. 

Reaction left Slim drooling narcotic juice over the hands that were caressingand kissing the charm. Fleigh yanked him savagely into the car and gunned theelectros. It went tearing out into the street under full power, while a wildyell of despair ripped out of the outlaw's throat. 

"My ghost charm!" He was pawing frantically at the door lock, with his faceswiveled around toward the bright, receding twinkle of the metal piece on thesidewalk behind. "Max! Max!" 

"Shut up and stay put! There must be a hundred more of those things you canbuy if we get out of this." Fleigh freed a hand and forced the cringing foolback into the seat, where he relaxed wood-enly, terror fading out to sullendespair that gradually mingled with doubt. 

"Then let's get out quick, Max! Once we hit Earth, I know a guy's got another.
Tain't as good a ghost with it as mine, but it ain't no fake, either! Yougotta give me enough to get it, Max!" 

Fleigh hid his thin grin from the other. They'd need more than a 

phnst charm or even nlanninp if thev ever went to F.arfh! He'rl seen 


•j-- ^ o j -- 
— _ _— 
what happened to failures there, and he knew that it would be better to walkinto the nearest Planet Police Bureau. But he reached 

over soothingly and patted the outlaw's shoulder. "Sure, Slim. We'll get youanother, maybe before we leave here." 

It shouldn't be hard to find one of the charm peddlers, and dope up a story.
There was a place on Venus where they could hide, once Slim worked up hisnerve to pilot them there—and provided that their luck held long enough tokeep the police from impounding the little craft. But the hideout would takemoney, and that had to come first. Planning took care of that; he'd alwaysbeen careful to avoid tying his personal fortune in the Earth Operativestrongholds. 

He swung the car around a corner, glanced at a jeweler's sign, and cursedwithout slowing down. The red light was on, warning that it had been raided.
One of his secret quarters gone! 

He stopped obediently for a through highway, then roared on. But the secondwas no better. There was sweat on his forehead, and his hands were slipperywith it when he headed out Mars Center Canal into the suburbs. Damn Curtis! It 
was impossible for him to have found the hideouts—or should have been! 

But there was no warning light in the window of the third and last place. Thelawyer's faded sign swung in the thin wind, and everything was serenelypeaceful. Fleigh jerked Slim out of the car, set its automatic chauffeur, andlet it go rolling off. 

Then he moved up the steps with the outlaw at his heels, listened cautiouslyat the door, and nodded. The steady click of a typewriter indicated that thescrawny little secretary was doing the routine office work, and Sammy musthave been undisturbed. He opened the door eagerly, to a louder clicking fromthe typewriter. 

Above it, Curtis looked up with an assured smile and waved the grandfather ofall hand weapons at him in genial greeting! 

"Come in, Max," he said cordially. "Like my double's speech?" 

Slim's trembling hand fumbled out automatically in the sign of the horns. Hisblanched mouth worked furiously, but the words refused to come until Curtisturned to him. Then he jerked back, waving his fingers. "He couldn'ta . . .
We'd of beat him. . . . Max! He's dead! He's a ghost!" 

Fleigh's hand groped for him and missed. Another apparition came into the roomfrom the inner office. This one was a shriveled little man, with owl eyes thatblinked at them out of thick-lensed spectacles. Jeremiah Greek picked up apencil with a contented grin, drew it across the bare flesh of his arm, andheld the red mark that rose on the skin out toward the outlaw. 

"In the flesh," he stated. 

But Slim was no longer listening. Slowly, as if moved by worn-down clockworks, 


he slid down the wall, and his dead-faced head bent forward to meet the kneesthat drew upward. There he stayed, motionless. 

"If that's catatonic return to the fetal position, it's an all-time record forspeed," Curtis commented with interest. "Sit down, Max. You seem to haveoverestimated your companion's moral fiber, and underestimated your opponents.
Never count on luck! It takes planning to get anywhere in this universe. ...
By the way, Jeremiah Greek is the original inventor of pancyclic tape; youshould have checked up on him, before you trusted him, and found out the wayyour Plutarchy gypped him out of his invention. He wasn't the sort of manwho'd co-operate very well with Earth. In fact, he was the sort who could andwould fake a tape for your recorder to cover up the call he put in under mycode to the Martian Council!" 

Fleigh moved toward the chair as the gun commanded, only half conscious of thewords. He sank into a sitting position, his mind churning savagely and gettingnowhere. Play along! Keep your eyes open! If you let the other guy make themoves, he'll slip up somewhere. It was basic training to operatives, but therewas uncertainty in even that logic now. But there was nothing else to do. 

Greek picked up the account. "With a promise of secrecy from Councilor Curtis,
and a chance to do legitimate research here, I felt quite free to drop my verydoubtful loyalty to my native planet, Mr. Fleigh. Those two similacra you shotwere crude, and the brain and blood imitation quite poor, I thought. Butfortunately, you didn't investigate thoroughly." 

"I didn't think the relay could fail. So you simply let the similacrumcollapse and took its place." Fleigh was forcing himself to casual-ness, whilehis brain hashed over all the rules for upsetting a trap. But it returnedinevitably to the basic need of stalling for time, and keeping them talking. 

"Not at all," Curtis corrected him. "We were late returning, so they simplyused an all-wave receiver to record your control signal on pancyclic tape,
inserted it into a generator, and the similacrum had his freedom in his pockettwo minutes after you turned on your control in the Council Chamber. Youreally didn't think I'd leave my speech in the middle to chase you, when I hada perfectly good double surely?" 

Fleigh's eyes darted to Slim, but there would be no help from that quarter.
Not a muscle had moved since the outlaw had collapsed onto the floor. 

He forced himself to relax deliberately. Relax! As long as he was tensed up inthe chair, they'd watch him, but they'd be less cautious if he seemed toabandon hope. And he was younger and faster than they were, in spite of hisfat. 

Greek's amused cackle broke his chain of thought. "So simple a solution, Max!
But of course an involute brain would miss just that. . . . That's fine,
relax! And when you start anything, you'll be surprised to find how quicklyand efficiently a couple of sentimental visionary fools can shoot! Or do youthink, Councilor, that we're really such fools?" 

"I doubt it," Curtis answered, with the same hard amusement in his voice. "AsI see it, a reactionary is simply unable to adapt to new conditions; he'sfilled with a blind, stubborn dependence on the rude past. And brute force isan admission of that intellectual poverty. Max, you should have studiedhistory better. The addlepated idealists have a peculiar habit of winning." 


They stood there, grinning and studying their captive with the one thing inthe universe he had never encountered—open contempt. Fleigh wet his lips,
glancing from one to the other and considering the hopeless distance to thedoor. 

And suddenly the beginnings of an idea permeated through the hard knot of fearin his brain. They didn't believe in brute force! They wouldn't kill himwithout provocation; and they couldn't turn him in to the police! 

He swung back to Curtis, and this time there was a grin on his own lips. "Yousaid you promised Mr. Greek secrecy, Councilor. Not immunity, because the oldlaw against making robots is too strong; and similacra would be consideredrobots. Well, just how do you figure you can turn me over to the authoritieswithout breaking that promise and having him strung up beside me?" 

"I never meant to turn you in," Curtis answered. 

"And you said yourself that brute force was stupid!" 

"Quite true." It was Greek who answered this time. "But the rules of justicesometimes invoke it. The penalty for treason, like that for robotry, is stilldeath, though we've abandoned most other reasons for capital punishment." 

"Then turn me in! Or kill me yourselves—and you'll find that brute forcereally is stupid on Mars! The police here are the best in the system, which iswhy I always preferred to do my little jobs elsewhere. You amateurs wouldn'thave a chance. Well?" 

But he knew he had them, and the taste of freedom in his mouth was sweet afterthe fear and hopelessness of their gloating power. He did not wait for ananswering nod from them, but turned from his chair in calm assurance andheaded for the door. 

Greek's voice interrupted his exit. "Just a minute, Max! You really shouldknow all your mistakes, and there's one we forgot. . . . Never use a perfectsimilacrum! It can't be perfect without thinking exactly like its original;
the same mind must operate the same way. Your similacrum was limited only bythe time it could exist—and it knew that, as well as knowing it was uselessamong real men!" 

"So what?" Fleigh asked jauntily, and reached for the door. "And so long!" 

Steel hands grabbed him and a pair of arms of inhuman strength picked him upand turned him around to face the two men. Curtis dropped his gun onto thetable with a slow, deliberate motion, holding the struggling operative with asingle hand, while he stretched the other out to Jeremiah Greek. Then heturned toward the door, dragging the fat body of Fleigh along without effort. 

"So when you're found dead in your house, killed by the robot you were havingbuilt in some fiendish plot against Councilor Curtis, I don't think the policewill worry—beyond seeing that both you and the robot—myself—are thoroughlybeyond repair!" 

There was bitterness in the voice of the similacrum, but it was resolute anddetermined bitterness. "When the real Curtis replaced me in the CouncilChamber, he meant to make my few days of existence as pleasant as possible. 


But even a limited similacrum likes to be useful. Come along, Max." 

Max Fleigh went along; there was nothing else he could do, as the duplicate ofCurtis tossed him into a small car and began driving back toward the town andthe house that had been his Martian home and would soon be his tomb. He 
couldn't even think straight; his head insisted on dwelling on nonsense. 

Slim had been right, after all, and his ghost charm had brought him luck, evenafter he lost it. But for the man who refused to believe in it, there was nohope for such insane oblivion. There was simply no hope of any kind. 

In retyping "Unreasonable Facsimile" for this book, I could only wonder howI'd ever dared show it to Campbell. His rejection was 

automatic, and whatever he said about it has been forgotten. It's "straight"
with a vengeance! The plot is one that is known as a "biter bit," which meansit takes someone we don't like and eventually shows his failure for some faultof his own. It's perfectly standard fare in the older detective storymagazines and some others. Beginning writers still submit such things,
probably because they're so easy to write. 

It's the only one of its kind I ever tried, and I suppose I had to do thattype of story some time or other. But hardly for Campbell! 

Again I'd made the mistake that too many young or beginning writers make whenthey are talking to an editor. They take every word literally. Editors don'tmean them that exactly, as a rule. If an editor says that he likes to have afew stories with girls in them, he's speaking comparatively—he means with moreevidence of girls than most of the stories he gets, unless he's publishingall-girl stories already. If he asks for more action in your stories, hedoesn't mean that every single page of the story must be packed with action.
I've always taken that for granted—except this time, it seems. 

This was another story that sold to Robert Lowndes. And in his magazine, itfitted much better. 

My fourth story in this sequence was an idea I'd had for a long time, andwhich simply hadn't ripened enough previously. I'd even started it once, andhad two pages among my notes. I dug those out and used them pretty much asthey were. This time the story seemed to come into focus, and I was able to goon with it. 

Since I'd thought about it several times since the idea first came to me backin St. Louis, I had a lot of background material behind it which always helpsto make a story seem real when it is being written. 

It's a little complicated, but it deals with a truly benevolent dictator. Hehas to be a dictator, because a world wearied by a great war that broke upinto a generation of small wars has been too sapped to care much who governsit or how he governs. And our dictator knows that if he were to die, someknave or fool might take over in his place and ruin all he's built up. Thetrouble is that he is dying, and he can't stand another heart transplant. (Wedealt with such things in science fiction long ago.) His only hope is that heis secretly training a robot built to look like him to take over. But how canhe know enough about it to trust it? The robot and the way he has trained it 

to think as much like himself as possible are the key elements of the story. 


It came to 6,500 words and was called "Uneasy Lies the Head." 

Campbell indicated that this story was one he almost bought and might havebought if he hadn't had his usual full inventory. I suspect the element hedidn't like was that weak and vapid populace, since Campbell had something ofa mania for the basic unquenchable human will. 

Donald Wollheim bought it for Ten Story Fantasy in 1950. It has been reprinteda few times, and I still like it well enough to be glad it's in one of mycollections. 

That was supposed to be the last story of my writing binge. But when Ifinished it, I still had all that background material roiling around in mymind. I'd worked out the history of the family of the dictator and of therobot brain pretty thoroughly, and it gradually began to shape up into astory. (You might call this another "pre-quel." Why I should find it easier towork backward than forward is something I can't answer.) By morning, it waspretty well developed, and I sat down to write it. It came to 6,600 words andwas entitled "Conditioned Reflex." In a later magazine publication it wasretitled "Mind of Tomorrow," which fits well enough; but I still prefer theoriginal title. 

22. Conditioned Reflex 
(by Lester del Key] 

Paul Ehrlich looked up from his wheat cakes in time to see his fatherexploding upward out of his chair and heading for the kitchen. By barking hisshins against the table leg, he barely managed to catch the older man's armand swing him forcibly back. The sharp pain did nothing to decrease hisirritation. 

"Dammit, justin, 1 told you to stop bothering Gerda, and 1 meant it! She hastrouble enough trying to get her work done in six


teen hours without your upsetting her. Now sit down and eat—and let heralone!" 

"Someday, Paul, I'm going to teach you I can still thrash you!" Justin Ehrlichdropped into the chair, but the rebellion on his face remained. "The butter issour! I told her I would not eat sour butter!" 

"Then you'll go without, unless you want to build us a cream separator so themilk won't have to stand long enough for the cream to rise. You can't makesweet butter from sour cream. Besides, butter is a luxury; we're lucky to havecows." 

"Yeah. Gotta get a bull, though." Harry Raessler sopped up the last dribble ofbeet syrup with a scrap of pancake and pointed glumly through the crude glasswindow to the world outside the log and mud-brick house. "Tain't the sameworld you was born to, Mr. Ehrlich. My wife sure tries, but she's only got twohands. C'mon, Paul, we better get busy on that barn roof." 

Paul nodded and followed his partner out, with a feeling of relief at leavinghis father's contrariness behind. The old man must be getting senile, if hisguess at the meaning of the word was correct. Complaints and grumblings! They 


were leading a life that would have been heaven to most of the people stillalive—and few men over fifty were included in that group. He shook his headagain, and went on splitting shakes off big pine blocks, while Harry beganpounding the crookedness out of their small collection of rusty nails. 

There had been a time when his father had seemed almost godlike to him, and hehad to admit that their present wealth was only partly due to his own efforts.
Justin had fled to MacQuarie Island when he foresaw the Fifth War, and hisprovision for the stay had proved as adequate as his selection of retreat hadbeen wise. For over twenty years he had continued his research there, untilthe war burned from nations to villages and flickered out. And only then hadhe consented to the long, dangerous voyage. 

But however well he had foreseen the consequences of the war, he had refusedto adapt to them, once they were back, and the burden had been Paul's fromthen on. Nineteen years of the hell of material energy had done its worst, andstarvation had killed half of the world's surviving sixty million. Now theyhad reverted to a rude cross between early pioneer and normal farmer, and lifewas going on. At least there was land enough, much of it still good, thoughthe materials to farm it were mostly destroyed. 

Still, Paul had done well enough. In the two years since the boat 

had docked and he had traded it for other things, he had tramped the country,
bartering his way to the security of half this place, and pulling his fatherwith him. And now, after three months' partnership with the Raesslers, Justin. . . 

"Paul! Drat it, Paul, where are you? Oh!" The old man came stormingimperiously around the barn corner, swearing at the rubble under his feet andinterrupting his son's bitter musing. "I thought you told me my equipment cameyesterday. Where the devil did you hide it?" 

Paul grimaced as he missed his stroke with the ax and ruined a roof shake. "Inthe woodshed. The men were too tired to go fooling around carrying it further,
after ferrying it up the Snake River. And stop grumbling! You're lucky we hadenough to pay barter for that job; I wouldn't fight the Snake for ten bullsand a tractor!" 

"Lucky? Why do you think I picked the cargo for trade before I holed up? Whydid I waste half my time getting you to study the agriculture books I tookwith me? Luck! D'you think I couldn't see what was coming? Though I neverthought you'd pick a godforsaken place like this. Now if I—" 

"Sure," Paul interrupted him. "I know, you'd have rediscovered the Garden ofEden, with railroads! When you find better land, a safer place, or one wherethe people are half as well back to normal, I'll go with you. It only took metwo years to find this. . . . Your junk is in the woodshed, Dad!" 

Justin grunted and then went hurrying off, muttering something about darnedimpertinence, while Harry looked up with a doubtful frown. "Shouldn't talkthat way to your dad, Paul. After all, he did fix it up a blame sight betterfor you than most of us got. Someday you'll probably own all Idaho, soon's weget a little further. Right now, we gotta farm any which way, but at least youknow better. Runnin' away from the fightin' don't make the rest of us muchshakes at it." 


"Yeah, I know, Harry, but. . . Let's get up on the roof. We have more thanenough here to patch it." 

They were halfway up the ladder when a series of piercing screams from thewoodshed culminated in a final whoop, and the figure of Justin came boilingout toward them. Paul sighed wearily, motioned Harry on up, and began climbingdown to face the fury. Peace, it was wonderful! Not only did the old man do nowork, when every hand was bitterly needed, but it was becoming impossible forothers to work around him. 

"All right, what is it?" he asked as he stepped through the door into whichhis father had retreated again. 

"Look. Ruined! Absolutely ruined! I packed that typewriter myself, and nowlook at it!" 

It was a sight, all right. Aside from a broken frame, twisted keys, and athoroughly mangled mess of levers and wires, it bore almost no resemblance toa typewriter. "If I ever get my hands on your porters! Boiling in oil—hot leadin their boots—I'll fry them. . . . The only typewriter I had, and look atit!" 

The corner of the boy's lip twisted down, but he chuckled grimly at hisfather's rage. "If you want to swim down the Snake after them, go ahead. Butit'd probably do more good to do your writing by hand." 

"WhatI" Justin stopped at the top of his shriek, closed his mouth, and withthe obviously masterful control needed in handling children, forced his voiceto be reasonable. "We'll have to get another. Boise has been picked over, butI understand it escaped the worst, and nobody was looking for typewriters.
You'll drive me to Boise tomorrow and we'll dig till we find one." 

He swung back into the woodshed and began sorting through his otherbelongings, while Paul headed back toward the barn and the common sense ofHarry. That last request, when the fields needed spraying and cultivating,
would be too thick for even Raessler to swallow. Nuts to Boise! 

But surprisingly, Harry took a different view of the matter. He screwed hisface into thoughtfulness and rolled a cigarette before answering, but his tonewas acquiescent when the words finally came. "Better go ahead, Paul. When awitch wants machinery, maybe it's a good idea he should get it." 

"A what?" 

"A witch—feller that goes in for hexin' and magic; like them that useta putghosts out to fight against the soldiers. No, that's right, you wouldn't knowabout it—you wasn't here. Anyhow, people roundabouts figger your dad's awitch. Mighty handy thing to have on your side, witches. You'd best drive himin; I'll spray the potatoes and Gerda'll help, maybe." 

"Magic is bunk," Paul told him sourly. "Your ghosts were probably some crudeform of invisibility. I didn't learn too much of the old science, but I knowenough not to believe in such things. And I'm not going to Boise. Come on,
let's finish the roof before it gets too hot up here." 

Gerda had enough to do without spraying potatoes, and Harry was already doingmore than his share of the work. If Justin wanted to waste time, let him do it 


alone. 

There was no wind in Boise, and the sweat was rolling down Paul's face as hedropped into the shade of the wagon and began unwrapping the lunch Gerda hadfixed. Justin picked through a few more bits of rubble, then joined him. Foronce, the older man was doing more than his share, and he was tired enough toswallow three bites of his sandwich before he gagged and spat. 

"Sour butter! I told Gerda no butter—dry, like her bread!" 

"So you pick on my sandwiches; yours are in the other bag. And Gerda's adarned good cook." Paul washed his sandwich down with the warm, bitter homebrew and studied the rubble of the former city with a large measure of doubt.
"This has been picked dry, and we haven't the faintest idea where to look.
Pure luck turned up that can of ANTU; if it'll kill rats as you say, it paysfor the trip. But we won't find anything else. Why not give up?" 

"Because I haven't found a typewriter! What's that?" 

Paul shook his head and handed the little thing over. "Search me. I hopedyou'd know some use for it. Funny-looking can." 

"Umm. Magnetronic memory relay, looks like, under the dirt. Uh-huh, it is."
Justin regarded it doubtfully, started to throw it away, and then gazed at itwith new interest. "Know what that is, or have you forgotten?" 

From somewhere in his memory, Paul dredged up the general idea. Science hadstumbled on it accidentally, shortly after magnetic current was rediscoveredand put to use. A colloidal suspension of metals in silicon jelly was providedwith nodes; then connecting any two nodes would create a conducting, permanentlink in the jelly, just as two related facts cause a permanent and reusablelink between brain cells. It could be taught by experience, after a fashion,
since the linkages became increasingly more conductive with use. It had provenquite satisfactory in replacing telephone relays. 

Justin nodded. "And adding machines. This is a double ten-node affair, sothat's what it came from. Mostly, all business machines were sold in the sameplace, so I hope you're bright enough to remember where you found it." 

It took them less than half an hour to sink the hole behind the wagon anadditional six feet through the soft trash. Justin's pick broke into theconcrete first, and there was nothing weak about his attack on a four-footcircle; the boy's arms were aching from pulling 

the stuff out when the cement finally broke. His father disappeared in ashower of agonized curses and dust! 

"Woof . . ." There was a fine vigor to his swearing, so no damage could havebeen done, and a second later the older man's head appeared below. "Come on,
we hit a cellar they missed. Stinks, but the air's clearing. Throw me thelantern. . . . Umm, two cellars, wooden framing cracked open between. Ladderover here ought to reach if I can get it through the hole." 

But Paul wasted no time waiting for ladders. He'd seen the rake sticking out apacking box, and the ax bits spilled from another frame of rotting wood. Axesand rakes! Another box fell open, revealing useless pick handles, but a half-
rotted shelf was stacked with the incalculable treasure of a hardware store's 


supplies. Not much, since the cellar seemed to have felt the edge of an energybeam—but enough to bring him to a speechless halt as he groped for realizationof their luck. 

Justin grumbled, seeing nothing to interest him. The crumbling section ofwooden partition broke through with a few strokes of his pick, and he wasclimbing through. Paul came in answer to his yell, but there was nothingexcept tiers of rotted paper and big books of some kind. Then his fatherjumped from an alcove and pointed to a stretch of ruined, earth-packed tunnelunder the overlying concrete layer, running along the wooden partition. 

"Used to be a stationery supply and business machine store over this. See thatbox? One of the adding machines the gadget came from. No good without magneticgenerators, but if we dig that out. . ." 

Paul turned back to his treasures. "You dig it out. If I have time after Iload the other stuff, I'll come and help; though I can't see much chance inthat mess. Unless you'd take time out to help load?" 

But as usual, Justin's idea of co-operation was to follow his own interests,
and the sound of the pick and shovel went on while Paul rigged a block andtackle to raise the loot. He loaded the wagon by himself, sweating over theinefficient hoist, and came back to find there was nothing else to be gleaned,
even though he explored into the hard-packed dirt with his pick. 

"Paul, you lazy loafer, quit goldbricking and give me a hand!" His father waspractically dancing in the hole between basements, his lips caked with sweatand dirt, but his voice as imperious as ever. 

At the moment, though, Paul was too well pleased to let even that irritatehim, and he followed the other through the twisting, danger


ous tunnel, to come up against an opened box that held what was obviously atypewriter, and a sound one. 

"Old keyboard, useless," Justin said, as he stooped to get his hands under it.
"Dvorak keyboard was standard for fifty years, and they still made thesethings. Darned reactionaries. The good one's just beyond, see! Now if you . .
. Ugh! Wheeo! I'll drag it out, and then there's another crate on your side ofthe partition—just machinery, but I can use it. Here! Or can you slide italong by yourself?" 

"Maybe. Yeah, I guess so. ... Oof! Maybe we'd better break it open and leavethe crate." 

"And lose half the pieces when it opened? Nonsense!" The old man grunted hisway over the worst of the tunnel, saving his breath for cursing judiciously,
until they were back to floor level. "May be more -stuff here—at least it'sone of the few unbeamed places the ruin pickers missed. When we get this up,
you load it, and I'll cover our tracks. Then maybe, if you stop raisingdamnfool objections to your father's better judgment, I'll tell you why I hadto have a typewriter. I'd have done it years ago if you hadn't been soinfernally curious." 

But Paul was listening with only half his mind when the work was done and hetook his place beside the two cows that were both draft and milk animals. Hisfather was seated on the big crate, with his precious typewriter in his hands, 


almost at peace with the world, and the wagon's converted truck wheels jumpedand wobbled over the ruins that had been a road leading homeward. His mind wasfar more concerned with the load than with the story. 

Stripped of justification, exaggeration, and distortion, it was simple enough.
His father had apparently had a typist copying his dictated material, and thenormal errors—or abnormal ones, as he told it—had led to a fight. There hadbeen a lawsuit, another fight, a broken arm for the typist, and an injunctionfor Justin to cease and desist from slandering the typist by insisting amachine could do better work. It was all highly colorful and complicated, butit had ended with the old man swearing that he would build such a machine, andsetting out to do so. 

"And now, by the Lord Harry, with a decent typewriter, I'm going to prove foronce and for all that he was just what I called him. Paul, you're going to seethe typing an editor would appreciate. No errors, no erasures, nomisspellings, and no passages left out! I'll finish the novel, and finish itright!" 

Paul chuckled. "You mean you spent twenty years on that—all the 

time and trouble on the Island? Yeah, you would, though I'll admit it'sprobably why we're alive today. Too bad more people weren't rich enough to getout as you did." 

"Rich and smart enough, don't forget," Justin corrected him with relativegentleness. His triumph was still strong upon him. "And if they had, they'dhave taken the trouble along with them. You get a hundred people and you havean administration; get that, and it bogs down till it has to join the war tocover itself up! Sure I spent twenty-years—I'd have spent a thousand, if I hadthem. I told him I'd prove he was everything I said, and I will!" 

"Hardly, Justin. He's dead. You might look for his heirs, but I don't thinkyou'd have much luck—not even in twenty more years. Haw, Bessy!" He guided thecows over a hole in the road, noting their complaining, but deciding that theycould wait three more hours for milking, probably. Might have to waste alittle in partial milking, but they were more than halfway home. 

Justin's peal of triumph cut through his thoughts and brought his mind back tohis father. "Think I'm a fool, Paul? I told you I wasn't one of your lily-
livered modern nincompoops! The swine had a daughter—wonderful girl, son,
wonderful; appreciated me! No, I won't have any trouble finding his heir.
You're it!" 

Paul shook his head, but he joined in the old man's laughter. For a moment hecould feel a distorted form of the old awe for his father, though he knew thesituation was ridiculous. Maybe Justin was a witch; at least, the whole Boiseaffair smacked of miracles. But witch or not, he was the only one of his kind! 

Harry Raessler seemed to agree, as he took one look at the laden wagon andbegan hitching up their other two cows while most of it was unloaded.
Definitely a witch, and a remarkable one! If Mr. Ehrlich would come along,
maybe they'd have the good luck to find the stock traders he'd heard aboutstill around, and even get a fairly good bargain. Gerda came out and smiledshyly, assuring the old man that there was no butter on the supper she hadpacked for him, and everything was sweetness and light. 


Of course, it couldn't last. A heavy rain caught Harry and Justin returning,
and ruined all plans to dig in Boise by making the roads impassable. Theirtriumphant acquisition of the entire stock of the traders—a bull, threehorses, and a few hogs and chickens—lost some of its pleasures when thestallion proved to have killer instincts and the two half-starved mares provedto be completely unbroken. 

Then in the morning, Justin had developed a case of sniffles, and 

discovered that the cream for his barley-coffee was turning sour! Everythingcame back to normal with a thump. Gerda retired to the kitchen in tears andPaul packed his father to his room with words he half regretted, half wishedhad been stronger. 

Now Harry came back over the field and cut into his thoughts with a dark lookat the clouds forming overhead. "Might as well get back, Paul. No use sprayin'when it's gonna rain. Well, we need it, though why it can't be spread out moreeven . . ." 

"Yeah. You might ask my father; he's the expert on contrariness." Paul hadbegun to forget under the back-breaking pumping of the sprayer, but it allcame back as they headed for the house. "Umm, what'd the man from Payettewant? You were arguing over an hour." 

"Wanted to buy our wrecked mower, to fix up one they found. I been holdin' outfor a better offer, but now, we don't need anything they got—so I'm tradin' acouple of crosscut saws and some ax bits for theirs. Heck, with that we canget swap-help from the whole section, a week's work for a day's mower use. . .
. And Paul, don't you go forgettin' it was your dad got us all that. He don'towe us one hour's work. I told you a witch was a good thing to have." 

"He owes Gerda a civil tongue! Dammit, I don't mind too much doing his work,
even without our sudden luck. But I can't stand his taking his spite out onyou two." 

"Yeah. It's kinda tough on her, what with the kid comin' and all. But mostly,
she's glad he's here. We're gettin' too rich, and most likely the rumor'sgettin' spread around. Bandits hear that, and you wake up dead some night—
unless they know you've got a witch, when they stay plenty far away. . . . Goon in, I'll unhitch the cows." The rain was beginning to fall, but they hadalready reached the barn, and the machine-gun sound of a typewriter driftedtoward them. Harry cocked an ear toward it, with the awe of a man who couldonly read by spelling out the words, but he made no comment. 

Paul was slightly surprised at the speed of the typing, himself, as he enteredthe house and began the slow filing of an adjustable slide for what mighteventually be a hand corn-planter. His father must have developed some trickof pre-typing on a correctible tape that could be fed in finished form intothe typewriter; no human fingers could move that rapidly. It was ingenious,
but hardly worth twenty years of work; any engineer would have scorned wastinga week on it! and he'd thought his father was a scientist! 

Still, even that might have been justified if the book had been some newmathematical theory that would necessitate almost im


possible accuracy and freedom from typographical errors. Instead, it was to bea novel—a romantic, swashbuckling novel of the kind popular before the war, 


when there were still publishing houses and people with leisure to devote toescape mechanisms. 

Paul gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax his pressure on the filebefore he ruined the slide. He'd seen real scientists in his two years of lifeas a wandering trader. There was old Kinderhook and Gleason, working withyoung Napier during the few hours when they were not slaving for theirexistence in the fields. They were fighting a losing battle, but at least theywere fighting. And somehow, with month-long calculations a machine could haveperformed in seconds, they were bringing the old, involved theories down to alevel where they might possibly be handled with the scanty materialsremaining. While such men were attempting miracles with no resources, hisfather sat comfortably dictating a stupid, anachronistic novel! 

But the rapid typing had become sporadic, now that he listened again, andthere was a mutter of cursing, followed by a brief burst of typing, and ayell. "Paul! Paul!" He climbed to his feet with a disgusted sigh and wenttoward the room before the other could come storming out to disturb the wholehousehold. 

"Yeah, what is it this time?" 

His father stood in the middle of the floor before a complicated mess ofmachinery. There was a small wood-fired steam boiler and engine, set up onflat rocks and puffing smoke out the window, a humming dynamo, and thetypewriter, all connected to a squat black box with tiny arms over the typekeys and an arm bent up near the platen. Justin shook his fists impotently atthe box. 

"Ruined, d'you hear, ruined! If I had a boat, I'd find those idiot porters!
Twenty years of work, and the misbegotten—" 

Paul grunted wearily. "And if I had a boat, I'd let you go chasing down theSnake after them. What the deuce is this mess?" 

"This mess," his father told him with heavy sarcasm, "is a voice-operatedtypewriter—and one that works! Or did work! not like the hundred tons of junkthe Institute had that couldn't punctuate or separate homonyms—or be operatedby more than a single trained speaker. My Vocatype worked, until it wasshipped here. Now it's ruined!" 

In spite of himself, the boy was impressed, though he couldn't be sure withouttesting whether by the achievement or the mere claim to it. He picked up themicrophone, slid in paper, pressed the button, and spoke quick words into themachine. "The mill wright could 

not attend the sacred rite, but he could write the right letter to right thefalse impression. Two apples fell to the ground, too rapidly. The man with thebow had to bow to the queen." 

There were no mistakes! 

"But a billion relays . . ." And the box couldn't weigh over a hundred pounds!
He stood frozen in wonder, waiting for his father's explanation. This time hegave the account full attention, even to the boasting. 

The voice analyzer and key magnets were old stuff, as were the scanning eyes 


to detect failure from the typewriter and the transformer that changedelectricity into magnetic current. The rest was as simple as its theory wascomplex. A thousand-node magnetronic memory tube of his father's ownconstuction occupied a little corner of the box and did the real work. Betweenits nodes, half a million links could be formed, serving as nodes for over ahundred billion sub-links that broke down to quintillions of sub-sub-links. Itwas of unusual size and complexity, but it had taken only a few months tobuild. 

The rest of the long years had been spent in pronouncing words and strikingkeys until the tube developed a conditioned reflex for every one of the wordsin the abridged dictionary and could begin the seemingly hopeless task oflearning to choose between alternate forms and somehow find a pattern ofpunctuation that worked. No normal man would have believed it possible, andonly the stubborn-est man in the world would have kept trying until successcrowned his herculean labors. 

"Now it's ruined," Justin finished, and the attention and surprise of his sonmust have mollified his anger, for there was only bitterness left in hisvoice. He picked up a sheet of his shorthand notes and began dictating, whilethe machine raced along slightly behind him. "'. . . as sure as my name'sPatrick Xenophon . . .' Look! Read that! '. . . as sure as my name's PatrickXavier . . . !' Twenty times I've said Xenophon and twenty times it's writtenXavier. All my conditioning of its reflexes ruined—all to be done over! Noknowing how many other errors it contains now!" 

Paul scratched the letters off the page with the point of his knife, and filedin the proper ones by hand typing. "That wouldn't occur to you, I suppose," hebegan, when a click from the machine called his eyes back. It had tossed thesheet out, inserted a fresh one, and begun typing the page again. When itfinished, its original version was back before them! 

Justin stared at his creation for long moments in horrified surprise, whilehis shoulders drooped slowly. Then, with a broken sound, he handed over thepages of his notes and finished copy and moved quietly out of the room.
Moments later, Paul saw him moving slowly through the rain down the path tothe barn, with Gerda at his heels. And the girl was smiling! 

Paul looked from the machine to their retreating forms and down at the pageshe held. Then he dropped limply into the chair. 

Gerda came in hours later to force his supper on him and light the lamp, buthe only grunted his thanks, and went on reading. Surprisingly, it was amarvelous piece of escape literature, masterfully written. Once the words onthe first page had penetrated his dazed mind, continuing was as inevitable asbreathing. In a way, it was a pity it could never be published; the need ofreally effective escapism had never been greater. 

And it was effective, in a strangely soothing way. At first he had meant tostop after the first chapter, but by then he knew the need of the relaxationit afforded, and he went on, letting the real world around him disappear fromhis mind. Besides, if its writing had meant twenty years of work for itscreator, there should be at least one person who could get some good out ofit! 

He put down the last page and went over to the machine, where the unfinishedbook ended. "'. . . as sure as my name's Patrick Xavier . . .'" Patrick Xavier 


O'Malley, it should have been—or Patrick Xenophon. . . . 

"Justin! Hey, Justin!" His bellow was almost the equal to his father's usualcry, but he had no chance to think of the similarity. When the door opened,
his finger was already on the passage, and shaking it under the older man'seyes. "You did name him Xavier, not Xenophon! Look at page four!" 

Justin took one startled look at the page and picked up the microphone. Thistime there was no hesitation as the Vocatype followed his words to the end ofthe page and kicked out the finished product. Then he chuckled. 

"Sometimes I almost think I'm stubborn, Paul. I'd have sworn I was right, so Ididn't think of checking. Do you realize what this means—a machine that isdesigned to take dictation, but won't do it unless the dictation is consistentwith its facts? Why, it's a perfect secretary. Teach it a little mathematicsand think of the errors it would save when writing up a piece of research.
Paul, for once you've actually made yourself useful!" 

The boy opened his mouth to answer that, but Justin gave him no chance. He wascaressing the machine and fairly burbling. 

"Now we can finish the book," he told it, and gave it another affectionatepat. "Nice machine—excellent machine! We'll show him that his grandfather wasa bigoted moron yet! By the way, boy, how was the yarn?" 

"Perfect," Paul answered, and swung out of the room and toward his bed withouttrusting himself to further insanity. Only his father could have invented suchan impossibility as a machine capable of showing the rudiments ofintelligence. And only Justin would have used it to finish a romance thatcould never be published. 

But as he crawled between the sheets, he was less sure of his father's misuseof it. Perhaps, somewhere in its mysterious sub-linkages it containedpotential intelligence, but it could never be made available in theirlifetimes. Thought is useless without a medium of communication, and while itcould learn facts, language is a protoplasmic by-product, filled with suchabstract and fact-confusing variables as truth or goodness. 

He dreamed of standing on a cliff while a blind man offered him a shiny newrobot, if he could only describe green and orange. 

It was barely dawn when Justin's hand on his shoulder roused him, and for amoment he thought he was still on the Island. Reality came back, though, as hegroped for his overalls. His father's eyes were red with lack of sleep, butfilled with a gamut of emotions. 

Justin broke the silence in a voice that was more gentle than he had used foryears. 

"I know what you think of me, Paul, but I never forgot the real world. KnowingI'd fail, I fought for decency as few men have ever fought, and it wasn'tuntil the last minute that I fled. . . . No, let me tell it my way. . . .
Integrating the administration of an advanced technological world isinconceivably complex—even the men doing the job have only a vague idea of howcomplex! The broad policies depend on the results of lesser departments, andso on through fifty stages, vertically and in untold horizontal subdivisions.
Red tape isn't funny; it's necessary and horrible. Complication begets 


complication, and that begets disconnection from reality. Mistakes are made;
no one can see and check them in time, and they lead to more errors, whichlead to war. 

"For a while, they fight against it. And then they simply fight! I did all Icould, and I failed. On the Island, there was nothing to do about it, so Ibuilt the Brain. Here, why should I struggle to re-create 

the old vicious cycle that will wind up with the whole race wiped out? I triedto prepare you, but I couldn't prepare myself for this." 

"If you'd explained . . ." Paul began weakly, but his father brushed it aside,
and went on. 

"But now something can be done. Government can work. All it needs is a brainto handle the red tape—not better, but more complicated than human brains—afew tremendous minds with perfect memories to hold the multitudinousinterlocking correlated compartments. Let men make the decisions, but letrobot brains free men to do it wisely—and move instantly, where red tape wouldtake years! Paul, we'll give them the brains." 

"No, Dad," the boy said softly, and cursed the inherited stubbornness thatrefused to leave his father in the newfound fantasy world. "Maybe someday,
they'll have those brains, and you'll be responsible. But not in our time. Youtaught me enough semantics to know just how impossible the job of giving yourgadget even a shadowy knowledge of words is going to be." 

There was no sign of disappointment on the old man's face. It stiffened, andthe perverse stubbornness reappeared, but he made no answer. Instead, hemotioned his son after him and went silently across to the Vocatype room. Onthe machine was a little slip of paper, and there were other bits under thereadjusted scanning eyes. 

"The trouble is, you think knowing that electricity works a motor is science,
Paul. It isn't. Science is the process of reducing all things to their lowestcommon denominator and building systematically from there. I had the trainingbefore I turned novelist, and I still have it. I didn't waste the nightdreaming. Check that list of words while you watch." Justin handed the slipover, and began arranging pieces of colored paper under the eyes of thescanner. 

"What?" he asked as the machine sprang to humming life. "What?" 

Fresh paper fed into the typewriter, and the words came slowly: "A bluetriangle and a red circle are on a white square. A black circle is on a what?
What?" 

"Hexagon," Justin answered quietly. 

"A black circle is on a hexagon. The hexagon is orange. What color is orange?
The hexagon is orange? What color is orange?" 

Paul's startled eyes narrowed as he stared at the blue sheet of pa-ner "Oranpeisn't listed amnnp the words!" 

A " " <—' " 
O 


"Of course not—I never taught it to the Brain. But it pulled the same trick onme before I woke you up." The old man pressed the 

microphone button and addressed the machine. "Orange is the color of thehexagon. The hexagon is orange. What color is orange?" 

The keys clicked. Then the page ripped out and a new one was inserted. With nofurther stalling, words began spilling onto the paper: 

The Luck of O'Mdley Page 119 

had to be true; the fact was as certain as the axioms of geometry, or thebasics of physics. Invariably, a mixture of red and yellow is orange. 

It skipped a space and added another line. "The hexagon is red and yellow. Thehexagon is orange. What color is the hexagon?" 

"Orange. Red and yellow make orange," Justin assured the doubtful machine, andshut it off. "You see, it has a perfect memory, as well as a sense ofanalysis. And it would have to have some vague sense of word purpose toseparate homonyms, as I see it now. Anyhow, I've already established the fuzzydistinction between a and the, so it may take years, but not centuries. . . .
And that's that for today. Let's see if we can find something to eat!" 

Paul's brain was reeling giddily as he watched his father begin slicing thebread, but the broad plan was already crystallizing, and he had no doubt ofits success. They'd have to get Gleason, Kinderhook, and Napier to join themhere, where the newfound wealth would permit leisure for their all-importantwork. At first they would have to depend on swap-help, but as wealth createdwealth, they could expand. The Brain could be turned into a calculatorinfinitely better than the older ones with a little teaching, sincemathematics is an exact language. And with the materials they could somehowfind now, the slow beginnings of science would provide still more wealth tobuild on. 

They'd have to organize a community out of its present anarchy, so some couldbe assigned to farm and others to teach and to think. That would be hard in aworld that had learned to shun all forms of government from bitter experience.
But while the Brain was as yet no perfect administrative machine, it would bemighty magic among the superstitious people. His father could coach it anddevelop his reputation as a witcri until the obvious advantages Oiorganization made such deception useless. 

Perhaps it would be better to keep the Brain a secret, though. But 

in any event, the knowledge and hope for the future it offered would make allthe rest possible 

"Um-hmm," Justin muttered around a mouthful of bread. "I think everything'sgoing to be all right now, son. But when I see Gerda—" 

And Paul's dream collapsed! It had been a nice illusion, but no stable futurecould be built on a hatred of sour butter. He swung toward his father, and hismouth was white and tense, so that the words had to be forced from his teeth.
"I told you to let her alone, Justin! If I ever—" 


"Umm. But you might take a look out the window and wait till I finish," theold man answered, and there was a grin on his lips. "While I was trying tofigure out what was wrong with the Brain, I got around to unpacking that othercrate I found on your side of the partition. Gerda and I had a time replacingthe motor with a crank, but we made it." 

Paul swallowed his rage slowly, and turned to look through the little pane ofglass toward the barn. At first he saw only the bobbing back of Harry, but asthe man stepped aside, the other thing became visible. Gerda apparently wantedto try her hand, for she was smiling as she began turning the crank. Twostreams of liquid spurted into the waiting pails. The cream separator wasworking quite satisfactorily! 

"As I was saying, before you interrupted, when I see Gerda . . ." Justin tookanother bite of the yellow-smeared bread and smacked his lips approvingly.
"When I see her, I must compliment her on what she churned last night. Verynice. I never could stand sour butter!" 

Campbell thought that "Conditioned Reflex" was somewhat unconvincing. Hedidn't talk too much about the stories, and I suspect it was painful for himto be piling up rejects against me. He began asking hopefully what my planswere, and I told him about my old decision that three strikes meant out. Fivesimply underscored the fact that I'd better stop thinking I could write. Hetried to talk me out of it, then gave up. "Let me know when you change yourmind" were his final words. 

Miss Tarrant followed me out of the door to tell me that John really felt verybad about it, and she also seemed unhappy. She was always a pleasant lady, aswell as an invaluable help to Campbell, and I tried to assure her thateverything was all right. 

Robert Lowndes bought "Reflex" sometime in 1950. He told me 

later that he'd also seen "Uneasy Lies the Head" before Wollheim bought it,
and that he regretted afterward that he hadn't kept both of them, to publishone after the other. I regretted it, too. Yet when I had a chance to put bothstories in the same collection, I didn't. It seems a pity, since each addssomething to the other. 

I won't say I was exactly happy on the subway going home, but I was probably alot less depressed than Campbell or Miss Tarrant thought. I wouldn't be thefirst writer to lose whatever makes his stories salable as he grows older. Itwas one of the hazards of living. I didn't like it, but I could live with it. 

So I put all the manuscripts into an envelope, put the typewriter back in itscase, and began shoving all the driblets of story ideas back into Henry'sfiles. 

It was only about a week later that Milt Rothman suddenly appeared on ourdoorstep. I hadn't seen him since Washington, and it was a happy reunion. Hewas now out of the army, studying to be a nuclear physicist. He'd finallytracked me down through Campbell's office, and he'd come in particular toinvite me to attend the World Science Fiction Convention in Philadelphia, hishometown. I was to stay with him at his parents' house, and I wasn't supposedto say no! 

Helen immediately urged me to accept, though I don't think it took much 


persuading. Those conventions had been going on since 1939, interrupted by thewar. I'd never attended one before, though I'd heard all about them. But itsounded like fun. 

It was fun, too. It took place over Labor Day weekend, and it was the biggestconvention ever. There were about three hundred writers and fans there. 
(Nowadays, the number is over four thousand.) Most of them were old friends,
even though I'd only met a few previously. There's something of a familyrelationship in science fiction, or there used to be before it got too big.
Milt was running the convention, with help from Sprague de Camp and numerousother people. 

It's rather hard to believe the number of things that developed out of thatconvention, and all of them good. Milt took me to the home of Jim Williams, abook dealer and fan, and I discovered that he was part of a small publishingfirm known as Prime Press, devoted to putting science fiction into hardcovers. Jim immediately began suggesting that I should get together acollection of my best stories and he'd 

be happy to publish them. What's more, he was offering me $100 on „•« • j-i,«

j. rtj. 
Olgiililg LllV^ liUULla^L. 

(In those days, science fiction was rarely touched by the regular publishers.
It was only through the efforts of such small publishers 

that it was eventually made popular enough to be accepted as a regularcategory.) 

Then a dark-haired and very quiet young man came up to me and introducedhimself as Scott Meredith, an agent. How would I like to have him representme? As he put it, he'd be delighted to have the author of "Helen O'Loy" as hisclient. I explained that I wasn't writing anymore, and that the only stories Ipossessed had already been rejected. That didn't seem to bother him, though.
He was perfectly willing to show how much he could help me if I'd let him havethe rejects. 

I promised to get in touch with him. I'd never used an agent, because theimportant ones didn't bother with writers whose income averaged as low asmine; and I wasn't interested in the peripheral ones who might have acceptedme. 

But Scott Meredith was a possibility. I knew he'd once been a science fictionfan himself, so he should know something about the field. And I'd recentlyseen his advertisement in Writers' Digest, which certainly looked like that ofan important agent. 

Fred Pohl was also present, and he and I talked, together with a few other NewYork science fiction people, about starting a science fiction club. I wassupposed to get in touch with him when we got back, and maybe we could dosomething about it. 

I did get in touch with Meredith, after having learned that he representedseveral other writers of science fiction. I took the stories I still had with 
me. We had a pleasant talk, much of it about science fiction, and I signed acontract with him. It was one of the best decisions I ever made, and after 


twenty-seven years I'm still with him. 

I also called Fred Pohl, and we made arrangements for the original group tomeet at his apartment. We wanted a sort of semiprofes-sional club, and onethat wouldn't be split by all the feuds that had previously plagued suchgroups. 

Nine of us met and began drafting a constitution extensive enough for a worldgovernment. With us were Robert Lowndes, Judy Merril, Philip Klass (WilliamTenn), and several others who took a somewhat less active vocal part in theproceedings. We decided to call it the Hydra Club, since it began with nineheads. 

It developed into quite a club, with about fifty members. It was hard to thinkof anybody of any importance in science fiction who 

wasn't pifhpr a CHIPS!" <~>r a mprnlipr \A/p fhrpw a Tiicr 
Nfpw Year's — - — - -—— — g — — —-— — --—. 
..— .— - — .. — ~~o — • —. • — —— — 

party annually, as well as meeting once a month, and were certainly the mostsuccessful of any science fiction group in the area. 

It had a pretty fair influence on professional activities, too. A lot ofvaluable contacts were made there, and information passed freely among themembers. It had no official purpose, but it served fairly well as a writers'organization. 

Years later, after the feuds could no longer be held back, trouble came. Fredand I were the highest officers at the time, and we tried to kill the cluboff. But it wouldn't die. Others still continued to hold meetings in its name,
though not with quite the zest of previous times. 

Indirectly, it served me well very early in its existence. It was through theclub that I had grown friendly with Robert A. W. Lowndes (to give him hiscurrent preferred name). And it was "Doc" Lowndes who called me up to tell methat Scott Meredith was looking for an editor, and maybe I should apply. (Idoubt that Scott would have thought of me, since he didn't know me that wellyet.) 

It sounded like a good idea. I guessed (accurately, as it turned out) thatmore could be learned about writing and publishing in an agent's office thananywhere else. I still wasn't sure I'd ever want to write again, but I wassure that I needed to know a lot more than I did if I were ever to try writingseriously. 

So I went down, took a test to see whether I could spot the flaws in a prettybad story, and was hired. The salary was not handsome; editorial salariesseldom are, since there are so many eager applicants. But it was adequate. 

I worked there nearly three years. When I started, Darnon Knight was handlingthe professional writers, and a couple of us were taking care of reading feesubmissions. 

I've heard a lot of criticism against agents who charge reading fees tounknown writers, and I had some doubts about the practice myself. But I'm nowconvinced that it is a necessary and valuable service. True, a lot of would-be 


writers gain nothing for their money; that's true in any training course, andeven more true of most of the writers' workshops that seem to be highlyapproved. I've seen quite a few writers who did learn to write professionallythrough reading fee criticism, and many who shortened the long period ofapprenticeship. I've also seen unknowns accepted almost instantly to fullprofessional status—something they couldn't have gained otherwise until they'dsold a pretty fair amount on their own. Richard 

JTiauici, iOi instanCc, WaS uiSCOVcicu iiorn a rcauing ice SUumlSSIOrij 

as a result, he began his professional career with the advantage of a well-
known agent. 

The trouble with reading fees lies not in the system, but with abuses possibleunder it. Those abuses aren't too hard to spot: charging for requestedrewrites, or trying to sell the writer on having his story rewritten; falseguarantees or false lures of "free" reading; and a lack of provision to givean acceptable manuscript proper professional agenting. 

Sidney Meredith, Scott's invaluable brother, was in charge of that department.
And most certainly while I was there he made sure that writers were treatedhonestly. And those who worked there with me were genuinely interested inhelping any writer who showed signs of promise or the slightest ability tolearn. 

I learned more there in six months than I could ever have learned in writingby myself, even with the kind of editorial help Campbell was always willing togive. I learned not to be provincial in my outlook, for one thing. The basicskills of the Western or mystery are the same as those of science fiction;
each division simply requires learning a new background. There isn't even muchdifference between good fact writing and good fiction. But there are thingsthat must be learned for each type, and I was discovering how to learn themquickly. 

I was learning exactly what a fool I'd been in submitting to one market. I'veseen manuscripts sold on the fortieth submission, after receiving the mostcursory rejections from the other editors. 

I got a chance to deal directly with a great many editors, and to find outwhat they really wanted. 

I also developed a very strong friendship with Scott and Sid Meredith, andthat has been invaluable to me on many occasions. They are friends first andagents second. I've been told that an author-agent relationship is likemarriage, and it's at least partly true. Certainly I'd no more recommend anyone agent to an author than I'd try to pick a wife for another man. 

Somewhere during this time, the friendships I had developed at the Hydra Clubalso paid off again. David Kyle was one of the original nine, and he'd beentrying to get me an apartment in his building for a long time. Finally, herushed around and dragged me off. He'd found one, but there was no time towaste. He wouldn't wait until I could get my money, but insisted on lending methe deposit. 

It was in a safe but shabby section, and the rent was just twelve dollars amonth! (I now live right across the street from where that place was, in amodern complex. The rent is about twenty-five times 


as great, and it's still a bargain as such things go.) For that, I got threesmall rooms in a solidly built old place. The bathtub was in the kitchen andserved as a drainboard when it was covered. There was no heat, but there was achimney into which I could vent a kerosene stove that wouldn't stink or poisonthe air. And there was privacy. 

Helen and I moved in and equipped it pretty much in keeping with the placeitself. We were delighted with it. And it saved a lot of time and trouble ingetting to work. 

Scott Meredith had been trying for months to get me to write. But I wanted nopart of it. It was Campbell who finally broke me down, and the idea didn'tcome from him this time. He'd received a letter from a reader who was 
reviewing next year's November issue. It was meant as a joke, of course, butCampbell looked at the supposed lineup of writers and stories and decided thatit would make a good issue, and that he'd pull a little stunt on the letterwriter. 

Very much in secrecy, he contacted all the writers in the list, telling themthat he wanted to bring out that 1949 issue as close to the letter aspossible. And naturally, all of them agreed to try. 

I couldn't say no to that, either. It was too good a trick, and I owed toomuch to Campbell. 

The letter reviewed a short story by me entitled "Over the Top." For somereason, I detested the title, but it wasn't mine to change. Fortunately, therewere no details about the contents of the story —merely a rating as toexcellence. 

This time I really sweated it out. Campbell might be willing to settle for alittle less than usual in the merit of the story, for this special occasion.
But I didn't want to give him anything except my best. And after the lastexperiences, I wasn't sure I had any best left to give. 

In the end, I synthesized the story, after a fashion. I went back over all thestories of mine which Campbell had seemed to like best and began trying tofind what was in them to please him. Then I began drawing up a list of do'sand do not's. The hero had better be someone either pretty much alone orfeeling alone. There should be some kind of critter, if possible. Theviewpoint shouldn't be nice and normal. And so on. 

TJVpnhisllv T wnrkpfl out a t>lot. Tt tnnk me about fiftv tries before 

""-" * —•—- -—•————J 7 ' ' ~ 

i. 
J 
I was satisfied with the first paragraph. But from there on, it didn't go sobadly. I meant the story to come out almost exactly to 5,000 words 

—which it did. And I submitted it through the agency—the first new story ofmine they'd handled. 

Then I waited for the reaction in far more nervousness than I'd ever felt 
before. 


It came the next day in a phone call from Campbell. 

"That was a really nice story, del Rey," he said with a sort of a purr in hisvoice. "At our usual two cents a word, that's a hundred dollars. The check'salready in the mail." 

23. 
Over the Top (by Lester del Rey) 

The sky was lousy with stars—nasty little pinpoints of cold hostility that hadneither the remoteness of space nor the friendly warmth of Earth. They didn'ttwinkle honestly, but tittered and snickered down. And there wasn't even onemoon. Dave Mannen knew better, but his eyes looked for the low scudding formsof Deimos and Phobos because of all the romanticists who'd written of them. 
They were up there all right, but only cold rocks, too small to see. 

Rocks in the sky, and rocks in his head—not to mention the lump on the back ofhis skull. He ran tense fingers over his wiry black hair until he found theswelling, and winced. With better luck, he'd have had every inch of his three-
foot body mashed to jelly, instead of that, though. Blast Mars! 

He flipped the searchlight on and looked out, but the view hadn't improvedany. It was nothing but a drab plain of tarnished reddish sand, chucked aboutin ridiculous potholes, running out beyond the light without change. Thestringy ropes of plantlike stuff had decided to clump into balls during thenight, but their bilious green still had a clabbered appearance, like theresult of a three days' binge. There was a thin rime of frost over them,
catching the light in little wicked sparks. That was probably significantdata; it would prove that there was more water in the air than the scientistshad figured, 

even with revised calculations from the twenty-four-inch lunar refractor. 

But that was normal enough. The bright boys got together with their hundred-
ton electronic slipsticks and brought forth all manner of results; after that,
they had to send someone out to die here and there before they found why thesticks had slipped. Like Dave. Sure, the refractory tube linings were good fortwenty-four hours of continual blast—tested under the most rigorous labconditions, even tried on a couple of Moon hops. 

So naturally, with Unitech's billionaire backer and new power handling methodsgiving them the idea of beating the Services to Mars— no need to stop on theMoon even, they were that good—they didn't include spare linings. They'd havehad to leave out some of their fancy radar junk and wait for results until therocket returned. 

Well, the tubes had been good. It was only after three hours of blasting,
total, when he was braking down for Mars, that they began pitting. Then they'dheld up after a fashion until there was only forty feet of free fall—about thesame as fifteen on Earth. The ship hadn't been damaged, had even landed on hertripod legs, and the radar stuff had come through fine. The only trouble wasthat Dave had no return ticket. There was food for six months, water for moreby condensing and reusing; but the clicking of the air machine wouldn't lethim forget his supply of breathing material was being emptied, a trickle at atime. And there was only enough there for three weeks, at the outside. After 


that, curtains. 

Of course, if the bright boys' plans had worked, he could live on compressedair drawn from outside by the air lock pumps. Too bad the landing had sprungthem just enough so they could barely hold their own and keep him from losingair if he decided to go outside. A lot of things were too bad. 

But at least the radar was working fine. He couldn't breathe it or take offwith it, but the crystal amplifiers would have taken even a free fall all theway from mid-space. He cut the power on, fiddling until he found the Lunarbroadcast from Earth. It had a squiggly sound, but most of the words comethrough on the begacycle band. There was something about a fool kid who'dsneaked into a plane and got off the ground somehow, leaving a hundred honestpilots trying to kill themselves in getting him down. People could kill eachother by the millions, but they'd go all out to save one spectacular uselesslife, as usual. 

Then it came: "No word from the United Technical Foundation 

rocket, now fourteen hours overdue in reporting. Foundation men have given uphope, and feel that Mannen must have died in space from unknown causes,
leaving the rocket to coast past Mars unmanned. Any violent crash would havetripped automatic signalers, and there was no word of trouble from Mannen—" 

There was more, though less than on the kid. One rocket had been tried twoyears before, and gone wide because the tubes blew before reversal; the worldhad heard the clicking of Morse code right to the end, then. This failure wasonly a secondhand novelty, without anything new to gush over. Well, let themwonder. If they wanted to know what had happened, let 'em come and find out.
There'd be no pretty last words from him. 

Dave listened a moment longer, as the announcer picked up the latest rift inthe supposedly refurbished United Nations, then cut off in disgust. TheAtlantic Nations were as determined as Russia, and both had bombs now. If theywanted to blast themselves out of existence, maybe it was a good thing. Marswas a stinking world, but at least it had died quietly, instead of raising allthat fuss. 

Why worry about them? They'd never done him any favors. He'd been gypped allalong. With a grade-A brain and a matinee idol's face, he'd been given athree-foot body and the brilliant future of a circus freak—the kind the crowdlaughed at, rather than looked at in awe. His only chance had come whenUnitech was building the ship, before they knew how much power they had, andfigured on saving weight by designing it for a midget and a consequentlysmaller supply of air, water, and food. Even then, after he'd seen the ad,
he'd had to fight his way into position through days of grueling tests. Theyhadn't tossed anything in his lap. 

It had looked like the big chance, then. Fame and statues they could keep, butthe book and endorsement rights would have put him where he could look downand laugh at the six-footers. And the guys with the electronic brains hadcheated him out of it. 

Let them whistle for their radar signals. Let them blow themselves to bitsplaying soldier. It was none of his worry now. 

He clumped down from the observatory tip into his tiny quarters, swallowed a 


couple of barbiturates, and crawled into his sleeping cushions. Three weeks togo, and not even a bottle of whiskey on the ship. He cursed in disgust, turnedover, and let sleep creep up on him. 

It was inevitable that he'd go outside, of course. Three days of nothing butsitting, standing up, and sleeping was too much. Dave let 

the pumps suck at the air in the lock, zipping down his helmet over the softrubber seal, tested his equipment, and waited until the pressure stood abouteven, outside and in. Then he opened the outer lock, tossed down the plasticramp, and stepped out. He'd got used to the low gravity while still aboard,
and paid no attention to it. 

The tripod had dug into the sand, but the platform feet had kept the tubesopen, and Dave swore at them softly. They looked good 

—except where part of one lining hung out in shreds. And with liningreplacements, they'd be good—the blast had been cut off before the tubesthemselves were harmed. He turned his back on the ship finally and faced outto the shockingly near horizon. 

This, according to the stories, was supposed to be man's high moment—the firstliving human to touch the soil outside his own world and its uselesssatellite. The lock opened, and out stepped the hero 

—dying in pride with man's triumph and conquest of space! Dave pushed therubbery flap of his helmet back against his lips, opened the orifice, and spaton the ground. If this was an experience, so was last year's stale beer. 

There wasn't even a "canal" within fifty miles of him. He regretted that, in away, since finding out what made the streaks would have killed time. He'd seenthem as he approached, and there was no illusion to them—as the lunar scopehad proved before. But they definitely weren't water ditches, anyhow. There'dbeen no chance to pick his landing site, and he'd have to get along withoutthem. 

It didn't leave much to explore. The ropes of vegetation were stretched outnow, holding up loops of green fuzz to the sun, but there seemed to be novariation of species to break up the pattern. Probably a grove of trees onEarth would look the same to a mythical Martian. Possibly they represented sixmillion and seven varieties. But Dave couldn't see it. The only point ofinterest was the way they wiggled their fuzz back and forth, and that soongrew monotonous. 

Then his foot squeaked up at him, winding up in a gurgle. He jumped a good sixfeet up in surprise, and the squeak came again in the middle of his leap,
making him stumble as he landed. But his eyes focused finally on a dullbrownish lump fastened to his boot. It looked something like a circularcluster of a dozen pine cones, with fuzz all over, but there were littleleglike members coming out of it—a dozen of them that went into rapid motionas he looked. 

"Queeklrle," the thing repeated; sending the sound up through the denser airin his suit. It scrambled up briskly, coming to a stop over his supply kit andfumbling hurriedly. "Queeklrle!" 

Oddly, there was no menace in it, probably because it was anything but a bug



eyed monster; there were no signs of any sensory organs. Dave blinked. Itreminded him of a kitten he'd once had, somehow, before his usual luck foundhim and killed the little creature with some cat disease. He reacted 
automatically. 

"Queekle yourself!" His fingers slipped into the kit and came out with achocolate square, unpeeling the cellophane quickly. "It'll probably make yousick or kill you—but if that's what you're after, take it." 

Queekle was after it, obviously. The creature took the square in itspseudopods, tucked it under its body, and relaxed, making faint gobblingsounds. For a second, it was silent, but then it squeaked again, sharper thistime. "Queeklrle!" 

Dave fed it two more of the squares before the creature seemed satisfied, andbegan climbing back down, leaving the nuts in the chocolate neatly piled onthe ground behind it. Then Queekle went scooting off into the vegetation. Davegrimaced; its gratitude was practically human. 

"Nuts to you, too," he muttered, kicking the pile of peanuts aside. But itproved at least that men had never been there before—humans were almost asfond of exterminating other life as they were of killing off their own kind. 

He shrugged, and swung off toward the horizon at random in a loose, lopingstride. After the cramped quarters of the ship, running felt good. He went onwithout purpose for an hour or more, until his muscles began protesting. Thenhe dug out his water bottle, pushed the tube through the helmet orifice, anddrank briefly. Everything around him was the same as it had been near theship, except for a small cluster of the plants that had dull red fuzz insteadof green; he'd noticed them before, but couldn't tell whether they were onestage of the same plant or a different species. He didn't really care. 

In any event, going farther was purposeless. He'd been looking for anotherQueekle casually, but had seen none. And on the return trip, he studied theground under the fuzz plants more carefully, but there was nothing to see.
There wasn't even a wind to break up the monotony, and he clumped up to theramp of the ship as bored as he had left it. Maybe it was just as well his airsupply was low, if this was all Mars had to offer. 

Dave pulled up the ramp and spun the outer lock closed, blinking in the gloom,
until the lights snapped on as the air lock sealed. He watched the pressuregauge rise to ten pounds, normal for the ship, 

and reached for the inner lock. Then he jerked back, staring at the floor. 

Queekle was there, and had brought along part of Mars. Now its squeaks cameout in a steady stream as the inner seal opened. And in front of it, fifteenor twenty of the plant things went into abrupt motion, moving aside to form anarrow lane through which the creature went rapidly on into the ship. Davefollowed, shaking his head. Apparently there was no way of being sure aboutanything here. Plants that stood steady on their roots outside could moveabout at will, it seemed—and to what was evidently a command. 

The fool beast! Apparently the warmth of the ship had looked good to it, andit was all set to take up housekeeping—in an atmosphere that was at least ahundred times too dense for it. Dave started up the narrow steps to hisquarters, hesitated, and cursed. It still reminded him of the kitten, moving 


around in exploratory circles. He came back down and made a dive for it. 

Queekle let out a series of squeals as Dave tossed it back into the air lockand closed the inner seal. Its squeaks died down as the pressure was pumpedback and the outer seal opened, though, and were inaudible by the time hemoved back up the ladder. He grumbled to himself halfheartedly. That's whatcame of feeding the thing—it decided to move in and own him. 

But he felt better as he downed what passed for supper. The lift lasted for anhour or so afterward—and then left him feeling more cramped and disgusted thanever as he sat staring at the walls of his tiny room. There wasn't even a bookto read, aside from the typed manual for general care of the ship, and he'dread that often enough already. 

Finally he gave up in disgust and went up to the observatory tip and cut onthe radar. Maybe his death notices would be more interesting tonight. 

They weren't. They were carrying speculations about what had happened to him—
none of which included any hint that the bright boys could have made an error.
They'd even figured out whether Mars might have captured the ship as asatellite and decided against it. But the news was losing interest, obviously,
and he could tell where it had been padded out from the general broadcast togive the Lunar men more coverage—apparently on the theory that anyone as farout as the Moon would be. mnre interested in the subject. They'd added one newtouch, though! 

"It seems obvious that further study of space conditions beyond 

the gravitic or magnetic field of Earth is needed. The Navy announced that itsnew rocket, designed to reach Mars next year, will be changed for use as adeep-space laboratory on tentative exploratory trips before going further.
United Technical Foundation has abandoned all further plans for interplanetaryresearch, at least for the moment." 

And that was that. They turned the microphone over to international affairsthen, and Dave frowned. Even to him, it was obvious that the amount of wordsused had no relation to the facts covered. Already they were beginning toclamp down the lid, and that meant things were heading toward a crisis again.
The sudden outbreak of the new and violent plague in China four years beforehad brought an end to the former crisis, as all nations pitched in throughaltruism or sheer self-interest, and were forced to work together. But thathadn't lasted; they'd found a cure after nearly two million deaths, and therehad been nothing to hold the suddenly created co-operation of the powers.
Maybe if they had new channels for their energies, such as the planets— 

But it wouldn't wash. The Atlantic Nations would have taken over Mars on the 
strength of his landing and return, and they were in the lead if another shipshould be sent. They'd gobble up the planets as they had taken the Moon, andthe other powers would simply have more fuel to feed their resentments andbring things to a head. 

Dave frowned more deeply as the announcer went on. There were the usualplanted hints from officials that everything was fine for the Atlantic Powers—
but they weren't usual. They actually sounded super-confident—arrogantly so.
And there was one brief mention of a conference in Washington, but it was thekey. Two of the names were evidence in full. Someone had actually found a wayto make the lithium bomb work, and— 


Dave cut off the radar as it hit him. It was all the human race needed—a 
chance to use what could turn into a self-sustaining chain reaction. Man hadfinally discovered a way to blow up his planet. 

He looked up toward the speck that was Earth, with the tiny spot showing theMoon beside it. Behind him, the air machine clicked busily, metering outoxygen. Two and a half weeks. Dave looked down at that, then. Well, it mightbe long enough, though it probably wouldn't. But he had that much time forcertain. He wondered if the really bright boys expected as much forthemselves. Or was it 

only because he wasn't in the thick of a complacent humanity, and had time forthinking, that he could realize what was coming? 

He slapped the air machine dully, and looked up at the Earth again. The fools!
They'd asked for it; let them take their medicine now. They liked war betterthan eugenics, nuclear physics better than the science that could have foundhis trouble and set his glands straight to give him the body he should havehad. Let them stew in their own juice. 

He found the bottle of sleeping tablets and shook it. But only specks ofpowder fell out. That was gone, too. They couldn't get anything right. Nowhiskey, no cigarettes that might use up the precious air, no more amytal.
Earth was reaching out for him, denying him the distraction of a sedative,
just as she was denying herself a safe and impersonal contest for her clash ofwills. 

He threw the bottle onto the floor and went down to the air lock. Queekle wasthere—the faint sounds of scratching proved that. And it came in as soon asthe inner seal opened, squeaking contentedly, with its plants moving slowlybehind it. They'd added a new feature 

—a mess of rubbish curled up in the tendrils of the vines, mixed sand, anddead plant forms. 

"Make yourself at home," Dave told the creature needlessly. "It's all yours,
and when I run down to the gasping point, I'll leave the locks open and thepower on for the fluorescents. Somebody might as well get some good out of thehuman race. And don't worry about using up my air—I'll be better off withoutit, probably." 

"Queeklrle." It wasn't a very brilliant conversation, but it had to do. 

Dave watched Queekle assemble the plants on top of the converter shield. Thebright boys had done fine, there—they'd learned to chain radiation andneutrons with a thin wall of metal and an intangible linkage of forces. Theresult made an excellent field for the vines, and Queekle scooted about,
making sure the loads of dirt were spread out and its charges arrangedcomfortably, to suit it. It looked intelligent 

—but so would the behavior of ants. If the pressure inside the ship botheredthe creature, there was no sign of it. 

"Queeklrle," it announced finally, and turned toward Dave. He let it followhim up the steps, found some chocolate, and offered it to the pseudopods. ButQueekle wasn't hungry. Nor would the thing accept water, beyond touching it 


and brushing a drop over its fuzzy surface. 

It squatted on the floor until Dave flopped down on the cushions, 

then tried to climb up beside him. He reached down, surprised to feel the fuzzgive way instantly to a hard surface underneath, and lifted it up beside him.
Queekle was neither cold nor warm; probably all Martian life had developedexcellent insulation, and perhaps the ability to suck water out of the almostdehydrated atmosphere and then retain it. 

For a second, Dave remembered the old tales of vampire beasts, but he rejectedthem at once. When you come down to it, most of the animal life wasn't toobad—not nearly as bad as man had pictured it to justify his own superiority.
And Queekle seemed content to lie there, making soft monotonous little squeaksand letting it go at that. 

Surprisingly, sleep came easily. 

Dave stayed away from the ship most of the next two days, moving aimlessly,
but working his energy out in pure muscular exertion. It helped, enough tokeep him away from the radar. He found tongs and stripped the lining from thetubes, and that helped more, because it occupied his mind as well as hismuscles. But it was only a temporary expedient, and not good enough for eventhe two remaining weeks. He started out the next day, went a few miles, andcame back. For a while then, he watched the plants that were thrivingunbelievably on the converter shield. 

Queekle was busy among them, nipping off something here and there and pushingit underneath where its mouth was. Dave tasted one of the buds, gagged, andspat it out; the thing smelled almost like an Earth plant, but combined allthe quintessence of sour and bitter with something that was outside hisexperience. Queekle, he'd found, didn't care for chocolate—only the sugar init; the rest was ejected later in a hard lump. 

And then there was nothing to do. Queekle finished its work and they squattedside by side, but with entirely different reactions; the Martian creatureseemed satisfied. 

Three hours later, Dave stood in the observatory again, listening to theradar. There was some music coming through at this hour—but the squigglyreception ruined that. And the news was exactly what he'd expected—a lot ofdetail about national things, a few quick words on some conference at theUnited Nations, and more on the celebration of Israel over the anniversary ofbeginning as an inde


—— j—j. —i:— r\—.«'. ——— —_____•— _r LL-L __.__ j_-_ i_._j. ____ jjuiuui iuauun. jL^avt s uwii iiiciiiuiica ui uiai wcic umi, UUL suilic 

came back as he listened. The old United Nations had done a lot of wranglingover that, but it had been good for them, in a way—neither 

side had felt the issue offered enough chance for any direct gain to threatenwar, but it kept the professional diplomats from getting quite so deeply intomore dangerous grounds. 

But that, like the Chinese plague, wouldn't come up again. 


He cut off the radar, finally, only vaguely conscious of the fact that therocket hadn't been mentioned. He could no longer even work up a feeling ofdisgust. Nothing mattered beyond his own sheer boredom, and when the airmachine-Then it hit him. There were no clicks. There had been none while he 
was in the tip. He jerked to the controls, saw that the meter indicated thesame as it had when he was last here, and threw open the cover. Everythinglooked fine. There was a spark from the switch, and the motor went on when hedepressed the starting button. When he released it, it went off instantly. Hetried switching manually to other tanks, but while the valve moved, themachine remained silent. 

The air smelled fresh, though—fresher than it had since the first day out fromEarth, though a trifle drier than he'd have liked. 

"Queekle!" Dave looked at the creature, watched it move nearer at his voice,
as it had been doing lately. Apparently it knew its name now, and answeredwith the usual squeak and gurgle. 

It was the answer, of course. No wonder its plants had been thriving. They'dhad all the carbon dioxide and water vapor they could use, for a change. NoEarth plants could have kept the air fresh in such a limited amount of space,
but Mars had taught her children efficiency through sheer necessity. And nowhe had six months, rather than two weeks! 

Yeah, six months to do nothing but sit and wait and watch for the blowup thatmight come, to tell him he was the last of his kind. Six months with nothingbut a squeaking burble for conversation, except for the radar news. 

He flipped it on again with an impatient slap of his hand, then reached to cutit off. But words were already coming out: 

". . . Foundation will dedicate a plaque today to young Dave Mannen, thelittle man with more courage than most big men can hold. Andrew Buller, backerof the ill-fated Mars rocket, will be on hand to pay tribute—" 

Dave kicked the slush off with his foot. They would bother with plaques at atime like this, when all he'd ever wanted was the right 

•r»iiT-r»l-\(=»T r\-f •moi-l'-p r\-n TT-nif^i^ Qfi4-f»o r-Tirrf^rtr*\r 
T~F/^ OnaTYrn=>rl at1 flip* rlialC 
twisting them, and grabbed for the automatic key as more circuits coupled in. 

"Tell Andrew Buller and the whole Foundation to go—" 

Nobody'd hear his Morse at this late stage, but at least it felt good. Hetried it again, this time with some Anglo-Saxon adjectives thrown in. Queeklecame over to investigate the new sounds and squeaked doubtfully. Dave droppedthe key. 

"Just human nonsense, Queekle. We also kick chairs when we bump into—" 

"Mannen!" The radar barked it out at him. "Thank God, you got your radarfixed. This is Buller—been waiting here a week and more now. Never did believeall that folderol about it being impossible for it to be the radar at fault.
Oof, your message still coming in and I'm getting the typescript. Good thingthere's no FCC out there. Know just how you feel, though. Darned fools here. 


Always said they should have another rocket ready. Look, if your set is bad,
don't waste it, just tell me how long you can hold out, and by Harry, we'llget another ship built and up there. How are you, what—" 

He went on, his words piling up on each other as Dave went through a mixtureof reactions that shouldn't have fitted any human situation. But he knewbetter than to build up hope. Even six months wasn't long enough—it took timeto finish and test a rocket—more than he had. Air was fine, but men neededfood, as well. 

He hit the key again. "Two weeks' air in tanks. Staying with Martian farmer ofdoubtful intelligence, but his air too thin, pumps no good." The last he letfade out, ending with an abrupt cutoff of power. There was no sense in theirsending out fools in half-built ships to try to rescue him. He wasn't a kid inan airplane, crying at the mess he was in, and he didn't intend to act likeone. That farmer business would give them enough to chew on; they had theirmoney's worth, and that was that. 

He wasn't quite prepared for the news that came over the radar later—
particularly for the things he'd been quoted as saying. For the first time itoccurred to him that the other pilot, sailing off beyond Mars to die, mighthave said things a little different from the clicks of Morse they hadbroadcast. Dave tried to figure the original version of "Don't give up theship" as a sailor might give it, and chuckled. 

And at least the speculation over their official version of his Martian farmerhelped to kill the boredom. In another week at the most, there'd be an end tothat, too, and he'd be back out of the news. Then there'd he more Inn? rlavsanrl mVhrs rn fill snmphnw Tipfnrp 

__-_._ __ o „__ ^ _ ——— — ——^— — __ ——— _ 
_ —— _— _ . . 7 ______ 

his time ran out. But for the moment, he could enjoy the antics of nearlythree billion people who got more excited over one man in 

trouble on Mars than they would have out of half the population starving todeath. 

He set the radar back on the Foundation wave length, but there was nothingthere; Buller had finally run down, and not yet got his breath back. Finally,
he turned back to the general broadcast on the Lunar signal. It was remarkablehow man's progress had leaped ahead by decades, along with his pomposity, justbecause an insignificant midget was still alive on Mars. They couldn't havediscovered a prettier set of half-truths about anybody than they had from thecrumbs of facts he hadn't even known existed concerning his life. 

Then he sobered. That was the man on the street's reaction. But the diplomats,
like the tides, waited on no man. And his life made no difference to a lithiumbomb. He was still going through a coun-terreaction when Queekle insisted itwas bedtime and persuaded him to leave the radar. 

After all, not a single thing had been accomplished by his fool message. 

But he snapped back to the message as a new voice came on: "And here's a lateflash from the United Nations headquarters. Russia has just volunteered theuse of a completed rocketship for the rescue of David Mannen on Mars, and 


we've accepted the offer. The Russian delegation is still being cheered on thefloor! Here are the details we have now. This will be a oneway trip, radar-
guided by a new bomb control method—no, here's more news! It will be guided byradar and an automatic searching head that will put it down within a mile ofMannen's ship. Unmanned, it can take tremendous acceleration, and reach Mannenbefore another week is out! United Technical Foundation is even now trying tocontact Mannen through a hookup to the big government high-frequency labswhere a new type of receiver—" 

It was almost eight minutes before Buller's voice came in, evidently while theman was still getting Dave's hurried message off the tape. "Mannen, you'recoming in fine. Okay, those refractories—they'll be on the way to Moscow insix hours, some new type the scientists here worked out after you left. We'llsend two sets this time to be sure, but they test almost twenty times as goodas the others. We're still in contact with Moscow, and some details are stillbeing worked on, but we're equipping their ship with the same typerefractories. Most of the other supplies will come straight from them—" 

Dave nodded. And there'd be a lot of things he'd need—he'd see to that. Thingsthat would be supplied straight from them. Right now, everything was milk andhoney, and all nations were being the 

fool pilots rescuing the kid in the plane, suddenly bowled over byinterplanetary success. But they'd need plenty later to keep their diplomatsbusy—something to wrangle over and blow off steam that would be vented onimportant things, otherwise. 

Well, the planets wouldn't be important to any nation for a long time, butthey were spectacular enough. And just how was a planet claimed, if the manwho landed was taken off in a ship that was a mixture of the work of twocountries? 

Maybe his theories were all wet, but there was no harm in the gamble. And evenif the worst happened, all this might hold off the trouble long enough forcolonies. Mars was still a stinking world, but it could support life if it hadto. 

"Queekle," he said slowly, "you're going to be the first Martian ambassador toEarth. But first, how about a little side trip to Venus on the way back,
instead of going direct? That ought to drive them crazy and tangle up theirinterplanetary rights a little more. Well? On to Venus, or direct home toEarth?" 

"Queeklrle," the Martian creature answered. It wasn't too clear, but it wasobviously a lot more like a two-syllable word. 

Dave nodded. "Right! Venus." 

The sky was still filled with the nasty little stars he'd seen the first nighton Mars, but he grinned now as he looked up, before reaching for the keyagain. He wouldn't have to laugh at big men, after all. He could look up atthe sky and laugh at every star in it. It shouldn't be long before thosesnickering stars had a surprise coming to them. 

Campbell got the other stories he needed to make up the trick issue. Thus thereader was given the magazine he had predicted. It wasn't exactly the same,
but very close. And just before it was supposed to appear on the newsstands, 


Campbell sent around a copy for each writer and a very special copy to beautographed for the reader. This, complete with autographs of all the writersand artists, was mailed to him. So everybody was happy. 

Well, almost in my case. I had a lot to be happy about. I enjoyed my work, andthe agency was beginning to sell some of my old rejects. A few of my storieswere being picked up for anthology use, adding to the income from my previouswriting. Several copies of ... And Some Were Human (the Prime Press book, notthe later Bal-lantine one, which was somewhat different) were sitting on ashelf 

to show that I was now a book author. And I'd sold a story to Campbell after afive-year hiatus. 

The only fly in the ointment was that I had an agent who was too muchinterested in getting me to write. The sale to Campbell left me no furtherdefenses, in his view. I had proved I could write again. Now go write! It wasgetting hard to resist, but I'd grown pretty stubborn. I had stopped thinkingabout stories (except for the one special case) and I didn't want to start itall over again. 

He won by what I considered cheating. After work on Friday, he called me in togive me an assignment. The editor needed a 6,000-word story about auto racingby Monday morning. There was no one else to take the assignment, so it was upto me. If I didn't do it, the implication was, the agency would be disgraced,
the editor would have to print blank pages, etc. 

So I went out and bought every sports magazine I could find with a story orarticle on auto racing. I knew how a sports story was supposed to beconstructed, with a personal problem and a sports problem, preferably withboth working out together at the end. A lot of the plotting was built in, andall it needed was some element of freshness and more than mechanical 
development. 

It turned out to be surprisingly easy. After all, this was to take place hereon familiar Earth with our normal culture and nothing with which people wereunfamiliar. There was no need to invent anything, as there always is in goodscience fiction. To make it even easier, I was following the instructionsMeredith had given to the other writers in the office and writing final copythe first time, carbons and all. The penny-a-word rate paid by such magazinessuddenly looked rather good against the time I spent on the story. 

From then on, I stopped fighting and accepted any assignment an editor wantedto give me. Quite a few came from "Doc" Lowndes, but there were others. And Ibranched out into a few detective stories, a couple of Westerns, and the wholerange of sports. I even did a couple on roller derby for Lowndes. 

I suddenly found myself doing more writing than I'd ever done before. None ofit was science fiction at that time. But my income was rather surprising whenI counted it up. 

I was also beginning to formulate a sort of universal rule for fiction. It hasprobably been discovered by countless writers, but it was new to me in itsstark and simple statement: The basis of all good fiction is character. Eventhe most formula-derived sports story could come to life if there were realand interesting characters taking part 


in the events. And the only reason for the problems and complications offiction was to display those characters to their fullest when meeting trialsand responding in their own, individual ways. 

The chief fault with that rule is that it doesn't give a bit of help increating such real and interesting characters. Nobody has ever succeeded inexplaining how that is done, though many have tried. It has nothing to do withdescription. I've seen pages of description wasted on a wooden character,
while other characters seem to leap to life with almost no description. 

It also has nothing to do with characters who "just run away with the story."
When that happens, it usually means that the writer is doing a bad job. A goodcharacter and a good story must fit each other, not run away from each other. 

Nevertheless, I often found the rule about character helpful in determiningwhether an idea was ready for writing. Until I could feel—not merely see—thestory from the viewpoint of the character, it wasn't. 

By the end of 1949, my writing was in better shape than it had ever been. I'mafraid there was less to be said favorably about my private affairs. Helen andI had decided that we made excellent friends, but that we weren't reallysuited to each other as married partners, and we had decided to separate. Itwas all done amicably, and neither of us felt any need to find fault with theother. She decided I could keep the old apartment if I'd pay for furniture forthe new one she had found for herself. And she left at the beginning of 1950. 

That year was an important one for science fiction, too. The magazine fieldwas shaken up by the planned publication of two new magazines. The Magazine ofFantasy and Science Fiction was to be edited by Anthony Boucher and J. FrancisMcComas. Galaxy would be under the guidance of Horace L. Gold. They were bothaimed at the serious adult science fiction reader, as only Astounding had beenpreviously. But each was quite different from Astounding. Boucher and McComaswere asking for stories with a strong literary flavor, and Gold seemed tosteer toward something slicker and perhaps more superficial than Campbellliked. It was hard to pin either down exactly at that time, but it was obviousthat they were going to have a major effect on science fiction. 

Galaxy was making a bid to capture the major writers by beginning with anoffer of three cents a word, and Astounding was soon forced to match thatrate. (It shortly raised the possible ante a bit 

more by paying bonuses on the best-liked stories in the issue, so that it waspossible to get four cents a word.) 

This made it possible finally for a writer to think seriously about devotingall his time to writing science fiction. At those rates, and with that manymagazines buying stories, a fair living was now possible. 

The major book publishers were also beginning to look on science fiction asworthy of consideration. Both Simon and Schuster and Doubleday began planningregular issuance of novels in the field; many were coming from the old serialsin the magazines, but a few new ones were bought. 

It was a boom time. Scott Meredith urged me to get back into science fiction,
and I began to consider it. By then, I didn't even have the excuse of theunsold stories—because most of those former rejects had been sold. It was thenthat I discovered my notes for "It Comes Out Here" and rewrote it. Gold bought 


it at once, and the $180 he paid was my first taste of the new rate. 

Gold also called me up to urge that I do a suspense novelette that would besomething like "Nerves." (I've had that suggested many times, both before andsince. I'm not sure that I like it. It's fine to have people admire your verybest work, but it's not quite so pleasant to have them expect you to duplicateit on order.) 

Another publisher wanted a science fiction short story from me that would holda hint of mystery in it. 

The short story wasn't too much of a problem. I already had an idea whichseemed to fit that description. It dealt with a robot during an early stage ofrobotics. The creature would be fully intelligent, though not fully educatedin the world, and not even aware of who or what he was. But because of defectsin his construction, he would have only a few hours to exist. The mystery layin the fact that it was to be told from his view, and that he wouldn't knowwhat was going on, until almost the end, when he had to face his "death." 

But the adventure-suspense novelette was another matter. I wasn't sure I coulddo it in the 15,000 words that Gold wanted. "Nerves" had needed twice that forits effect, and could have used more. 

Besides, I'd lost all my charts and notes on the building of suspense alongwith the vanished manuscripts when I moved from St. Louis. They weren'tsomething easy to remember, either, and they had taken me weeks of thought andstudy to develop. 

Anyhow, I find my mind has a curious quirk. I can remember a great deal aboutanything until I put it on paper. Then I sort of 

throw my mental notes away and depend on the written notes. And I've neverbeen much good at reconstructing something I've really done thoroughly. Ican't develop the enthusiasm for a twice-told tale. (I hate to deliver thesame speech twice, for instance.) I was afraid that a lot of that work onsuspense was gone for all time. Now, after having tried to start the projectagain a couple of times, I'm sure of that. 

But after considerable chasing of false ideas, I managed to find a plot thatlooked good. It put my characters into a literally life-and-death situation,
and promised to keep them there until the end. 

So I stayed at the office one night to start writing at least one of thestories. (My favorite typewriter at home was undergoing its yearly cleaningand checking, and I didn't feel like trying to put it all together and writeon it in one evening.) 

I started on the mystery short story, wondering how science fiction would feelafter having done so much routine pulp magazine fiction. But it was one of mygood moments for writing. The 6,000 words simply poured out of the typewriter.
I didn't even have to tear one page out and throw it away because of badlines. It took less than two hours to write "The Monster." 

It was accepted by the magazine for which it was written, but then themagazine folded. That was fine with me. I'd been thinking that it deserved abetter market, and suggested to Scott Meredith that it might have a chance atsome slick magazine. After reading the story, he agreed. It sold to Argosy for 


$500, and they did a beautiful job of setting up a display of it in theirpages. 

I wasn't so pleased with the story for Gold, which I titled "Wind Between theWorlds." It also came out of the typewriter quickly. I managed to finish itearly in the morning. But I knew there were rough spots in it. Still, it wasdone, and I decided to show it to Gold for his comments, before trying torewrite it. 

I think that was a mistake. A writer should do the best he can before he shows 
it to anyone else for comments. It doesn't matter whether his best comes withthe first draft or the tenth rewrite, but he should satisfy himself first.
Then he's in a much better position to judge the value of outside criticism. 

I've lost the letter Gold sent me, but I can remember my reaction. He dislikedthe beginning, I remember, and felt it had no emotional quality. He was quiteright. And he made a number of other valuable points. But there were otherplaces where I couldn't agree at all, particularly with his idea that one ofthe crew had to be a villain. 

I called him up and discussed it with him. In the end, we reached a compromiseon everything except the villain bit, to which I finally consentedreluctantly. 

I rewrote it from beginning to end—the best way, I've found, to make a storyhang together firmly after tinkering with it, and to catch discrepancies.
Patching is easier, but it often shows. 

This second version came out much too long, however, and I had to do a thirdversion, whittling it down. I sent that to Gold. I'm not sure he wascompletely satisfied, but he paid $500, which was a generous price. 

And this time I am not going to use the version of the story as I sent it tothe editor. Instead, I'm using the second version, with the parts about, thevillain cut out completely. This is the way I really intended "Wind Betweenthe Worlds" to be. It comes out to 17,500 words now. 

24. Wind Between the Worlds 
(by Lester del Rey)' I 

It was hot in the dome of the Bennington matter transmitter building. Themetal shielding walls seemed to catch the rays of the sun and bring them to afocus there. Even the fan that was plugged in nearby didn't seem to help much.
Vie Peters shook his head, knocking the mop of yellow hair out of his eyes. Hetwisted his lanky, angular figure about, so the fan could reach freshterritory, and cursed under his breath. 

Heat he could take. As a roving troubleshooter for Teleport Interstellar, he'dworked from Rangoon to Nairobi—but always with men. Pat Trevor was the firstof the few women superintendents he'd met. And while he had no illusions ofmasculine supremacy, he'd have felt a lot better in shorts or nothing rightnow. 

Besides, a figure like Pat's couldn't be forgotten, even though denimcoveralls were hardly supposed to be flattering. Cloth 


stretched tight across a woman's hips had never helped a man concentrate onhis work. 

She looked down at him, grinning easily. Her arm came up to toss her hairback, leaving a smudge on her forehead to match one on her nose. She wasn'texactly pretty; her face had too much honest intelligence for that. But thesmile seemed to illumine her gray eyes, and even the metal shavings in herbrown hair couldn't hide the red highlights. 

"One more bolt, Vie," she told him. "Pheooh! I'm melting. . . . So whathappened to your wife?" 

He shrugged. "Married a lawyer right after the divorce. Last I knew, they weredoing fine. Why not? It wasn't her fault. Between hopping all over the worldand spending my spare time trying to get on the moon rocket they werebuilding, I wasn't much of a husband. Funny, they gave up the idea of going tothe moon the same day she got the divorce." 

Unconsciously, his lips twisted. He'd grown up before DuQuesne discovered thematter transmitter, when reaching the other planets of the Solar System hadbeen the dream of most boys. Somehow, that no longer seemed important topeople, now the world was linked through Teleport Interstellar with races allacross the galaxy. 

Man had always been a topsy-turvy race. He'd discovered gunpowder beforechemistry, and battled his way up to the atom bomb in a scant few thousandyears of civilization, before he had a worldwide government. Most races,
apparently, developed space travel thousands of years before the mattertransmitter and long after they'd achieved a genuine science of sociology. 

DuQuesne had started it by investigating some obscure extensions of Dirac'sesoteric mathematics. To check up on his work, he'd built a machine, only tofind that it produced results beyond his expectations; matter in it simplyseemed to disappear, releasing energy that was much less than it should havebeen, but still enough to destroy the machine. 

DuQuesne and two students had analyzed the results, checked the math again,
and come up with an answer they didn't believe. But when they built two suchmachines, carefully made as nearly identical as possible, their wild idea hadproved true; when the machines were turned on, anything in them simply changedplaces—even though the machines were miles apart. 

One of the students gave the secret away, and DuQuesne was forced to give apublic demonstration. Before the eyes of a number 

of world-famous scientists and half a hundred reporters, a full ton of coalchanged places with a ton of bricks in no visible time. Then, while thereporters were dutifully taking down DuQuesne's explanation of electron wavesthat covered the universe and identity shifts, something new was added. Beforetheir eyes, in the machine beside them, a round ball appeared, suspended inmidair. It had turned around twice, disappeared for a few seconds, and poppedback, darting down to shut off the machines. 

For a week, the papers had been filled with the attempts to move the spherefrom the machine, crack it open, or at least distract it long enough to cutthe machines on again. By the end of that time, it was obvious that more thanEarth science was involved. Poor DuQuesne was going crazy with a combination 


of frustration and crackpot publicity. 

Vic's mind had been filled with Martians then, and he'd managed to be on theoutskirts of the crowd that was present when the sphere came to life, rose up,
cut on the machine, and disappeared again. He'd been staring at where it hadbeen when the Envoy had appeared. After that, he'd barely had time to noticethat the Envoy seemed to be a normal human before the police had begun chasingthe crowd away. 

The weeks that followed had been filled with the garbled hints that wereenough to drive all science fiction fans delirious, though most of the worldseemed to regard it as akin to the old flying saucer scare. The Envoy saw thePresident and the Cabinet. The Envoy met with the United Nations. The Envoywas admittedly a robot! India walked out; India came back. Congress protestedsecret treaties. General Autos held a secret meeting with United Analine. TheEnvoy would address the world in English, French, German, Spanish, Russian,
and Chinese. 

There were hundreds of books on that period now, and most schoolboys knew thespeech by heart. The Galactic Council had detected the matter transmittalradiation. By Galactic Law, Earth had thus earned the rights to provisionalstatus in the Council through discovery of the basic principle. The Councilwould now send Bet-zian engineers to build transports to six planets scatteredover the galaxy, chosen as roughly comparable to Earth's culture. Thetransmitters used for such purposes would be owned by the Galactic Council, asa nonprofit business, to be manned by Earth people who would be trained at aschool set up under DuQuesne. 

In return, nothing was demanded. And no further knowledge 

would be forthcoming. Primitive though we were by the standards of mostworlds, we had earned our place on the Council—but we could swim up the restof the way by ourselves. 

Surprisingly, the first reaction had been one of wild enthusiasm. It wasn'tuntil later that the troubles began. Vie had barely made his way into thefirst engineering class out of a hundred thousand ap-licants. Now, twelveyears after graduation . . . 

Pat's voice cut in on his thoughts. "All tightened up here, Vie. Wipe thescowl off and let's go down to check." 

She collected her tools, wrapped her legs around a smooth pole, and wentsliding down. He yanked the fan and followed her. Below, the crew was onstandby. Pat lifted an eyebrow at the grizzled, cadaverous head operator.
"Okay, Amos. Plathgol standing by?" 

Amos pulled his six-foot-two up from his slump and indicated the yellowstandby light. Inside the twin poles of the huge transmitter that was tuned toone on Plathgol a big, twelve-foot diameter plastic cylinder held a singlerabbit. Matter transmitting was always a two-way affair, requiring that thesame volume be exchanged. And between the worlds, where different atmospheresand pressures were involved, all sending was done in the big capsules. One-wayhandling was possible, of course—the advance worlds could do it safely—but itinvolved the danger of something materializing to occupy the same space assomething else—even air molecules; when space cracked open under that strain,
the results were catastrophic. 


Amos whistled into the transport-wave interworld phone in the code that wasuniversal between worlds where many races could not vocalize, got an answeringwhistle, and pressed a lever. The rabbit was gone, and the new capsule wasfaintly pink, with something resembling a giant worm inside. 

Amos chuckled in satisfaction. "Tsiuna. Good eating. I got friends on Plathgolthat like rabbit. Want some of this, Pat?" 

Vie felt his stomach jerk at the colors that crawled over the tsiuna. The hotantiseptic spray was running over the capsule, to be followed by supersonicsand ultraviolets to complete sterilization. Amos waited a moment and pulledout the creature. 

Pat hefted it. "Big one. Bring it over to my place and I'll fry it for you andVie. How's the Dirac meter read, Vie?" 

"On the button." The 7 percent power loss was gone now, after a week of hardwork locating it. "Guess you were right—the reflector was off angle. Shouldhave tried it first, but it never happened before. How'd you figure it out?" 

She indicated the interworld phone. "I started out in anthropology, Vie. Gotinterested in other races, and then found I couldn't talk to the teleportengineers without being one, so I got sidetracked to this job. But I stilltalk a lot on anything Galactic policy won't forbid. When everything elsefailed, I complained to one Ecthinbal operator that the Betz II boys installedus wrong. When I got sympathy instead of indignation, I figured it couldhappen. Simple, wasn't it?" 

He snorted and waited while she gave orders to start business. Then, as theloading cars began to hum, she fell behind him, moving out toward the office.
"I suppose you'll be leaving tonight, Vie? I'll miss you—you're the onlytroubleshooter I've met who did more than make passes." 

"When I make passes at your kind of girl, it won't be a one-night stand," hetold her. "And in my business, it's no life for a wife." 

But he stopped to look at the building, admiring it for the last time. It wasthe standard Betz II design, but designed to handle the farm crops around, andbigger than any earlier models on Earth. The Betz II engineers knew theirstuff, even if they did look like big slugs with tentacles and with no senseof sight. The transmitters were in the circular center, surrounded by a shieldwall, a wide hall all around, another shield, a circular hall again, andfinally the big outside shield. The two opposite entranceways spiraled throughthe three shields, each rotated thirty degrees clockwise from the entranceportal through the next shield. Those shields were of inerted matter thatcould be damaged by nothing less violent than a hydrogen bomb directly onthem—they refused to soften at less than ten million degrees Kelvin. How theBetzians managed to form them in the first place, nobody knew. 

Beyond the transmitter building, however, the usual offices and localtransmitters across Earth had not yet been built; that would be strictly ofEarth construction, and would have to wait for an off season. They were usingthe nearest building, an abandoned store a quarter mile away, as a temporaryoffice. Pat threw the door open and then stopped suddenly. 

"Ptheela!" 


A Plathgolian native sat on a chair with a bundle of personal belongingsaround her, her three arms making little marks on something that looked like aused pancake. The Plathgolians had been meat-eating plants once. They stillsmelled high to Earth noses, and 

their constantly shedding skin resembled shaggy bark, while their heads werevaguely flowerlike. 

Ptheela wriggled one of her three arms. "The hotel found it had to decorate myroom," she whistled in Galactic Code. Many of the other races could notvocalize, but the whistling Code could be used by all, either naturally orwith simple artificial devices. "No other room—and all the hotels say they'refull up. Plathgolians stink, I guess. So I'll go home when the transmitter isfixed." 

"With your trade studies half done? Don't be silly, Ptheela. I've got a roomfor you in my apartment. How are the studies, anyhow?" 

For answer, the plant woman passed over a newspaper, folded to one item. "Whattrade? Your House of Representatives just passed a tariff on all trafficthrough Teleport!" 

Pat scanned the news, scowling. "Damn them. A tariff! They can't taxinterstellar traffic. The Galactic Council won't stand for it; we're stillonly on approval. The Senate will never okay it!" 

Ptheela whistled doubtfully, and Vie nodded. "They will. I've been expectingthis. A lot of people are sick of Teleport." 

"But we're geared to Teleport now. The old factories are torn down, the newones are useless to us without interstellar supplies. We can't get by withoutthe catalysts from Ecthinbal, the cancer-preventative from Plathgol. Andwho'll buy all our sugar? We're producing fifty times what we need, justbecause most planets don't have plants that separate the levo from the dextroforms. All Hades will pop!" 

Ptheela wiggled her arms again. "You came too early. Your culture isunbalanced. All physics, no sociology—all eat well, little think well." 

All emotion, little reason, Vie added to himself. It had been the same whenthe industrial revolution came along. Old crafts were uprooted and some peoplewere hurt. There were more jobs, but they weren't the same familiar ones. NowPlathgol was willing to deliver a perfect Earth automobile, semi-assembled andjust advanced enough to bypass Earth patent laws, for half a ton of sugar. TheEarth auto industry was gone. And the motorists were mad because Plathgolwasn't permitted to supply the improved, ever-powered models they made forthemselves. 

Banks had crashed, industries had folded, men had been out of 

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been accepted while it was still bringing new wonders. Now there was a higherstandard of living than ever, but not for the groups who 

had controlled the monopolies. And too many remembered the wrenching andchanging they'd had forced on them. 

Also, it hadn't proved easy to accept the idea of races superior to Man. Whatwas the use of making discoveries when others already knew the answers? Afeeling of inferiority had turned to resentment, and misunderstandings betweenraces had bred contempt here. Ptheela was kicked out of her hotel room—and agroup had tried to poison the "hideous" Betz II engineers last year. 

In an off-election year, politics could drop to the lowest level. 

"Maybe we can get jobs on Plathgol," he suggested bitterly. 

Ptheela whistled doubtfully. "Pat could, if she had three husbands —engineersmust meet minimum standards. You could be a husband, maybe." 

Vie kept forgetting that Plathgol was backward enough to have taboos and oddcustoms, even though Galactically higher than Earth, having had nearly amillion years of history behind her to develop peace and amity. 

The televisor connecting them with the transmitter building buzzed, and Amos'dour face came on. "Screwball delivery with top priority, Pat. Professor namedDouglas wants to ship a capsule of lunar vacuum for a capsule of Ecthinbaldeep-space vacuum. Common sense says we don't make much shipping vacuums bythe pound!" 

"Public service, no charge," Vie suggested, and Pat nodded. Douglas was a topman at Caltech and his goodwill testimony might be useful sometime. "Leave iton, Amos—I want to watch this. Douglas has some idea that space fluctuates,
somehow, and he can figure out where Ecthinbal is from a sample. Then he canfigure how fast an exchange force works, whether it's instantaneous or not.
We've got the biggest Earth transmitters, so he uses us." 

As he watched, a big capsule was put in place by loading machines and thelight changed from yellow to red. A slightly greenish capsule replaced theother. Amos signaled the disinfection crew and hot spray hit it, to befollowed by the ultrasonics. Something crackled suddenly, and Amos made a wildlunge across the screen. 

The big capsule popped, crashing inward and scattering glass shards in athousand directions. Pressure glass! It should have carried a standard codewarning for cold sterilization and no supersonics. 

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Pat's cry brought him back. There were sudden shrieks coming from thetelevisor. Men in the building were clinging frantically to 

anything they could hold, but men and bundles ready for loading were beingpicked up violently and sucked toward the transmitter. As Vie watched, a man 


hit the edge of the field and seemed to be sliced into nothingness, hisscreams cut off, half-formed. Death was inevitable to anything caught in theedge of the field. 

A big shard of glass had hit the control wiring, forcing together and shortingtwo bus bars, holding them together by its weight. It was wedged in firmly andthe transmitter was locked into continuous transmit. And air, with a pressureof fifteen pounds per square inch, was running in and being shipped toEcthinbal, where the pressure was barely an ounce per square inch! With thatdifference, pressure on a single square foot of surface could lift over a ton.
The poor devils in the transmitter building didn't have a chance. 

He snapped off the televisor as Pat turned away, gagging. "When was theaccumulator charged?" 

"It wasn't an accumulator in that installation," she told him weakly. "Thewhole plant uses an electron-pulse atomotor—good for twenty years ofcontinuous operation." 

Vie swore and made for the door, with Pat and Ptheela after him. Thetransmitter opening took up about two hundred square feet— which meantsomewhere between fifty and five hundred thousand cubic feet of air a secondwere being lost. Maybe worse. 

Ptheela nodded as she kept pace with him. "I think the tariff won't mattermuch now," she whistled. 

Vic's action in charging out had been pure instinct to get where the troublelay. His legs churned over the ground, while a wind at his back made the goingeasier. 

Then his brain clicked over, and he dug his heels into the ground, trying tostop. Pat crashed into him, but Ptheela's arms lashed out, keeping him fromfalling. As he turned to face them, the wind struck at his face, whipping upgrit and dust from the dry ground. Getting to the transmitter building wouldbe easy—but with the wind already rising, they'd never be able to fight theirway back. 

It had already reached this far, losing its force with the distance, but stillcarrying a wallop. It was beginning to form a pattern, marked by the clouds ofdust and debris it was picking up. The arrangement of the shields andentrances in the building formed a perfect suction device to set the aircircling around it counterclockwise, twisting into a tornado that funneleddown to the portals. Men and 

women near the building were struggling frantically away from the center ofthe fury. As he watched, a woman was picked up bodily, whirled around, andgulped down one of the yawning entrances. The wind covered her cries. 

Vie motioned Pat and Ptheela and began moving back, fast. Killing himselfwould do no good. He found one of the little hauling tractors and pulled themonto it with him, heading back until they were out of the worst of the risingwind. Then he swung to face Ptheela. 

"All right, now what? Galactic rules be damned, this is an emergency, and I 


need help!" 

The shaggy Plathgolian made an awkward gesture with all three arms, and a slitopened in her chest. "Unprecedented." The word came out in Englishsurprisingly, and Pat's look mirrored his; they weren't supposed to be able totalk. "You're right. If I speak, I shall be banished by our council fromPlathgol for breaking security. But we can communicate more fully this way, soask. I may know more— we've had the Teleport longer—but remember that yourstrange race has a higher ingenuity quotient." 

"Thanks." Vie knew what the five husbands back on her home planet meant toher; they were not only a mark of status, but a chance to have stronger andmore capable offspring. But he'd worry about that after he could stop worryingabout his own world. "What happens next?" 

She dropped back to the faster, if less precise, Galactic Code for that. As heknew, the accidental turning on of the transmitter had keyed in the one onEcthinbal automatically to receive, but not to transmit; the air was movingbetween Earth and Ecthinbal in oneway traffic. The receiving circuit, whichwould have keyed in the Ecthinbal transmit circuit had not been shorted.
Continuous trans-mittal had never been used, to her knowledge; there was nocertainty about what would happen. Once started, no outside force could stop atransmitter; the send and stop controls were synchronous, both tapped from asingle crystal, and only that proper complex wave form could cut it off. Itnow existed as a space-strain, and the Plathgolians believed that this wouldspread, since the outer edges transmitted before matter could reach thecenter, setting up an unbalanced resonance that would make the field growlarger and larger. Eventually, it might spread far beyond the whole building.
And, of course, since the metal used by the Betz II engineers could not be cutor damaged, there was no way of tunneling in. 

"What about Ecthinbal?" Pat asked. 

Ptheela spread her arms. "The same, in reverse. The air rushes in, builds uppressure to break the capsule, and then rushes out—in a balanced stream,
fortunately, so there's no danger of crowding two units of matter in one unitof space." 

"Then I guess we'd better call the Galactic Envoy," Vie decided. "All he'sever done is to sit in an office and look smug. Now—" 

"He won't come to help. He is simply an observer. Galactic Law says you mustsolve your own problem or die." 

"Yeah." Vie looked at the cloud of dust being whirled into the transmitterbuilding. "And all I need is something that weighs a couple dozen tons percubic foot—with a good crane attached." 

Pat looked up suddenly. "Impossible. But how about one of the small atom-
powered army tanks—the streamlined ones? Flavin could probably get you one." 

Vie stamped on the pedal, swinging the little tractor around sharply towardthe office. The wind was stronger already, but still endurable. He clicked thetelevisor on, noticing that the dust seemed to disappear just beyond thenormal field of the transmitter. It must be starting to spread out. 

"How about it?" he asked Ptheela. "If it spreads, won't it start etching into 


the transmitter and the station?" 

"No. Betz II construction. Everything they built in has some way of groundingout the effect. We don't know how it works, but the field won't touch anythingput in by the Betzians." 

"What about the hunk of glass that's causing the trouble?" 

For a moment she looked as if she were trying to appear hopeful. Then theflowerlike head seemed to wilt. "It's inside the casing—protected from thefield." 

Pat had been working on the private wire to Chicago, used for emergencies. Shewas obviously having trouble getting put through to Flavin. The man was a sorespot in Teleport Interstellar. He was one of the few political appointees;
nominally, he was a go-between for the government and the Teleport group, butactually he was simply a sop to bureaucratic conventions. Finally Pat had himon the screen. 

He was jovial enough, as usual, with a red spot on each cheek which indicatedtoo many luncheon drinks. A bottle stood on the desk in 

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Pat disregarded the frown Vie threw her and began outlining the situation. Thepanic in her voice didn't require much feigning, Vie 

guessed. Flavin blustered at first, then pressed the hold button for longminutes. Finally, his face reappeared. 

"Peters, you'll have full authority, of course. And I'll get a few tanks foryou, somehow; I have to work indirectly." Then he shrugged and went rueful. "Ialways knew this sinecure would end. I've got some red slips here that make itlook as if you had a national disaster there." 

His hand reached for the bottle, just as his eyes met Vic's accusing look. Heshook his head, grinned ruefully again, and put the bottle away in a drawer,
untouched. "I'm not a fool entirely, Peters. I can do a little more than drinkand chase girls. Probably be no use to you, but the only reason I drink isboredom, and I'm not bored now. I'll be out shortly." 

In his own field, Flavin was apparently good. The tank arrived by intercityteleport just before he did. They were heavy, squat affairs, super-armored tostand up under a fairly close atomic bomb hit, but small enough to plungethrough the portals of the transmitter building. Flavin came up as Vie and Patwere studying them. His suit was designed to hide most of his waistline, butthe fat of his jowls shook as he hurried up, and there was sweat on hisforehead, trickling down from under his toupee. 

"Two, eh? Figured that's what I'd get if I yelled for a dozen. Think you canget in—and what'll you do then?" 


Vie shrugged. He'd been wondering the same thing. Still, if they could somehowram the huge shard of glass and crack it where it was wedged into the wiringinside the shielding, it might release the shorted wires. That should effectan automatic cutoff. "That's why I'm with the driver. I can extemporize if weget in." 

"Right," Pat agreed quickly. She caught a hitch in her coveralls and headedfor the other tank. "And that's why I'm going with the other." 

"Pat!" Vie swung toward her. But it wasn't a time for stupid chivalry. The manor woman who could do the job should do it. He gave her a hand into thecompact little tank. "Luck, then. We'll need it." 

He climbed into his own vehicle, crowding past the driver and wriggling intothe tiny observer's seat. The driver glanced back, then reached for thecontrols. The motor hummed quietly under them, making itself felt by thevibration of the metal around them. They began moving forward, advancing inlow gear. The driver didn't like it, as he stared through his telescreen, andVie liked it even less from 

the direct view through the gun slit. Beside them, the other tank got intomotion, roughly paralleling them. 

At first it wasn't too bad. They headed toward the north portal, travelingcautiously, and the tank seemed snug and secure. Beside him, Vie saw a treesuddenly come up by its roots and head toward the transmitter. It struck thefront of the tank, but the machine went on, barely passing the shock throughto the two men. 

Then the going got rough. The driver swore at the controls, finding themachine hard to handle. It wanted to drift, and he set up a fixed correction,
only to revise it a moment later. The tank began to list and pitch. The forceof the wind increased by the square inversely as they cut the distance. Atfifty feet, the driver's wrists were white from the tiny motions needed toovercome each tilt of the wind. 

Vie swallowed, wondering at the nerve of the man driving, until he saw bloodrunning from a bitten lip. His own stomach was pitching wildly. 'Try anotherten feet?" the driver asked. 

"Have to." 

"Not bad guts for a civilian, fellow. Okay, here we go." 

They crawled by inches now. Every tiny bump threatened to let the force of thewind hit under them and pitch them over. They had to work by feeling, prayingagainst the freak chance that might overcome all their caution. Vie wiped hisforehead and wiped it again before he noticed that the palm of his hand was asdamp as his brow. 

He wondered about Pat, and looked for her. There was no sight of the othermachine. Thank God, she'd turned back. But there was bitterness in his relief;
he'd figured Pat was one human he could count on completely. Then he looked atthe driver's wider view from the screen, and sick shock hit him. 

The other tank had turned turtle and was rolling over and over, straighttoward the portal! As he looked, a freak accident bounced it up, and it landed 


on its treads. The driver must have been conscious; only consummate skillaccounted for the juggling that kept it upright then. But its forward momentumwas still too strong, and it lurched straight toward the portal. 

Vie jerked his mouth against the driver's ear, pointing frantically. "Hit it!" 

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ward, pushing Vie down in his webbed and padded seat. The chances they weretaking now with complete disregard seemed surely fatal, 

but the driver moved more smoothly with a definite goal. The man let the windhelp him pick up speed, jockeying sidewise toward the other tank. They almostturned turtle as they swung, bucking and rocking frantically, but the treadshit the ground firmly again. They were drifting across the wind now, straighttoward the nose of the other tank. 

Vie was strained forward, and the shock of sudden contact knocked his headagainst the gun slit. He hardly felt it as he stared out. The two tanksstruggled, forcing against each other, while the portal gaped almost straightahead. "Hit the west edge and we have a chance," Vie yelled in the driver'sear. The man nodded weakly, and his foot pressed down harder on the throttle.
Against each other, the two tanks showed little tendency to turn over, butthey seemed to be lifted off the ground half the time. 

Inch by slow inch, they were making it. Pat's tank was well beyond the portal,
but Vic's driver was sweating it out, barely on the edge. He bumped an inchforward, reversed with no care for gears, and hitched forward and back again.
They seemed to make little progress, but finally Vie could see the edge movepast, and they were out of the direct jet that was being sucked into theportal. 

A new screen had lighted beside the driver, and Pat's face was on it, alongwith the other driver. The scouring of the wind made speech impossible overthe speakers, but the man motioned. Vie shook his head, and indicated a spiralcounterclockwise and outward, to avoid bucking against the wind, with the twotanks supporting each other. 

They passed the south portal somehow, though there were moments when it seemedthey must be swung in, and managed to gain ten feet outward on the turn. Thenext time around, they had doubled that, and it began to be smoother going.
The battered tanks lumbered up to their starting point eventually—and a littlebeyond, since the rising wind had forced everyone farther back. 

Vie crawled from the seat, surprised to find his legs stiff and weak; theground seemed to reel under him. It was some comfort to see that the driverwas in no better shape. The man leaned against the tank, letting the raw winddry the perspiration on his uniform. "Bro-other! Miracles! You're okay,
mister, but I wouldn't go in there again with the angel Michael." 

Vie looked at the wind maelstrom. Nobody else would go in there, either. 


Getting within ten feet of the portal was begging for death, even in the tank—
and it would get worse. Then he spotted Pat opening the tank hatch and movedover to help her out. She was bruised 

and more shaky than he, but the webbing over the seat had saved her frombroken bones. He lifted her out in his arms, surprised at how light she was.
His mind flickered over the picture of her tank twisting over, and his armstightened around her. She seemed to snuggle into them, seeking comfort. 

Her eyes came up, just as he looked at her. She lifted her face, and he mether lips in a firm, brief contact. "You scared hell out of me, Pat." 

"Me, too." She was regaining some color, and motioned him to put her down. "Iguess you know how I feel about what you did in there." 

Flavin cut off any answer Vie could have made, waddling up with hishandkerchief out, mopping his face. He stared at them, gulped, and shook hishead. "Lazarus twins," he growled. "Better get in the car—there's a drink inthe right door pocket." 

Vie lifted an eyebrow and Pat nodded. They could use it. They found the carand chauffeur waiting farther back. He poured her a small jigger and took onefor himself before putting the bottle back. But the moment's relaxation overcigarettes was better than the drink. 

Flavin was talking to the tank drivers, and a small roll changed hands,
bringing grins to their faces. For a political opportunist, he seemed a lotmore of a man than Vie had expected. Now he came back and climbed in besidethem. "I've had the office moved back to Bennington—the intercity teleportmanager offered us space." The locally owned world branches of intercityteleport were independent of Teleport Interstellar, but usually grantedcourtesy exchanges with the latter. "They'll be evacuating the city next, if Iknow the Governor. Just got a cease-and-desist order—came while you weretrying to commit suicide. We're to stop transmitting at once!" 

He grunted at Vic's grimace and motioned the chauffeur on, just as a callreached them. Vie shook his head at the driver and looked out to see Ptheela 
ploughing along against the wind, calling to them. The plant woman's skin waspeeling worse than ever. 

Flavin followed Vic's eyes. "You aiming to have that ride with us? The wayPlathies stink? Damned plants, you can't trust 'em. Probably mixed up in thistrouble. I heard . . ." 

"Plathgol rates higher in civilization than we do," Pat stated flatly. 

"Yeah. A million years stealing culture we had to scratch up for 

ourselves in a thousand. So the Galactic Council tells us we've got to rub ournoses to a superior race. Superior plants! Nuts!" 

Vie opened the door and reached for Pat's hand. Flavin frowned, fidgeted, thenreached out to pull them back. "Okay, okay. I told you that you were in chargehere. If you want to ride around smelling Plathies—well, you're runningthings. But don't blame me if people start throwing mud." He had the grace toredden faintly as Ptheela came up finally, and changed the subject hastily.
"Why can't we just snap a big hunk of metal over the entrances, to seal them 


up?" 

"Too late," Ptheela answered, sliding down beside Pat, her English drawing asurprised start from Flavin. "I was inspecting those two tanks, and they'refield-etched where they touched. That means the field is already outside thebuilding, though it will spread more slowly without the metal to resonate it.
Anyhow, how could you get metal plates up?" 

"How long will the air last?" Pat asked. 

Vie shrugged. "If it keeps increasing, a month at breathing level, maybe.
Fortunately the field doesn't spread downward much, with the Betzian design,
so it won't start working on the earth itself. Flavin, how about getting theexperts here? I need help." 

"Already sent for them," Flavin stated. They were heading toward the main partof Bennington now, ten miles from the station. His face was gray, and he nolonger seemed to notice the somewhat pervasive odor of Ptheela. They drew upto a converted warehouse finally, and he got out, starting up the steps justas the excited cries of a newsboy reached his ears. He flipped a coin andspread the extra before them. 

Word had spread quickly. It was all over the front page, with alarmingstatements from the scientists first interviewed and soothing statements fromlater ones. No Teleport Interstellar man had spoken, but an interview with oneof the local teleport engineers had given the basic facts, along with somesurprisingly keen guesses as to what would happen next. 

But above everything was the black headline: 

BOMB TRANSMITTER SAYS PAN-ASIA! 

The ultimatum issued by Pan-Asia was filled with high-sounding phrases andnoble justification, but its basic message was clear enough. Unless the lossof air—air that belonged to everyone—was stopped and all future transmittingof all types halted, together with 

all dealings with "alien antiterrestrials," Pan-Asia would be forced to bombthe transmitters, together with all other resistance. 

"Maybe . . ." Flavin began doubtfully, but Vie cut him off. His faith inmankind's right to its accidental niche in the Galactic Council wasn'tincreasing much. 

"No dice. The field is a space-strain that is permanent, unless canceled byjust the right wave form. The canceling crystal is in the transmitter. Destroythat, and the field never can be stopped. It'll keep growing until the wholeEarth is gone. Flavin, you'd better get those experts here fast!" 

Ill 

Vie sat in the car the next morning, watching the black cloud that swirledaround the station, reaching well beyond the old office. His eyes were red,
his face was gray with fatigue, and his lanky body was slumped onto the seat.
Pat looked almost as tired, though she had gotten some sleep. Now she took theempty coffee cup and thermos from him. She ran a hand through his hair,
straightening it, then pulled his head down to her shoulder and began rubbing 


the back of his neck gently. 

Ptheela purred approvingly from the other side, and Pat snorted. "Get yourmind off romance, Ptheela! Vic's practically out on his feet. If he weren't sodarned stubborn, this should make him go to sleep." 

"Romance!" Ptheela chewed the idea and spat it out. "I've read the stories.
All spring budding and no seed. A female should have pride from stronghusbands and proven seeding." 

Vie let them argue. At the moment, Pat's attention was soothing, but onlysuperficially. His head went on fighting for some usable angle and findingnone. The men who were supposed to be experts knew no more than he did. He'dswiped all the knowledge he could from Ptheela, without an answer. Plathgolwas more advanced than Earth, but far below the Betz II engineers, who weremere servants of the top creatures of the Council. 

No wonder man had resented the traffic with other worlds. For centuries he had 
been the center of his universe. Now, like the Tas-manians, he found himselfonly an isolated island of savages in a universe that was united in a culturefar beyond his understanding. He'd never even conquered his own planets; allhe'd dene was to build better ways of killing himself. 

Now he was reacting typically enough, in urgent need of someone 

even lower, to put him on middle ground, at least. He was substituting hatredfor his lost confidence in himself. Why learn more about matter transmittingwhen other races knew the answers and were too selfish to share them? 

Vie grumbled to himself, remembering the experts. He'd wasted hours with them,
to find that they were useless for anything but argument. The names that hadbeen towers of strength had proved no more than handles for men as baffled ashe was. With even the limited knowledge he'd pried from Ptheela, he was farahead of them— and still farther behind the needs of the problem. 

The gun Flavin had insisted he wear was uncomfortable, and he pulled himselfup, staring at the crew of men who were working as close to the center of windas they could get. He hadn't been able to convince them that tunneling washopeless. All they needed was a one-millimeter hole through the flooring, upwhich blasting powder could be forced to knock aside the glass shard. Theyrefused to accept the fact that the Betz II shielding could resist the bestdiamond drills under full power for centuries. He shrugged. At least it helpedthe general morale to see something being done; he'd given in finally and letthem have their way. 

"We might as well go back," he decided. He'd hoped that the morning air andsight of the station might clear his head, but the weight of responsibilityhad ruined that. It was ridiculous, but he was still in charge of things. 

Flavin reached back and cut on the little television set. With no real 
understanding, he was trying to learn tolerance of Ptheela, but he felt morecomfortable in front, beside the chauffeur. 

Pat caught her breath, and Vie looked at the screen, where a newscast wasshowing a crowd in Denver tearing down one of the Earth-designed intercityteleports. Men were striking back at the menace blindly. A man stood up fromhis seat in Congress to demand an end to alien intercourse; Vie remembered the 


fortune in interstellar trading of levo-rotary crystals that had bought theman his seat—and the transmitter-brought drugs that had saved him from deathby cancer. He'd spouted gratitude, once! 

There were riots in California, the crackpot Knights of Terra were recruitingmadly, and murder was on the increase. Rain had fallen in 

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country, caused by the unprecedented and disastrously severe low overBennington. People were complaining of the air, already claim


ing that they could feel it growing thinner, though that was sheer hystericalnonsense. The Galactic Envoy was missing. 

The editorial of the Bennington Times came on last, pointing a finger at Viefor changing the circuits, but blaming it on the aliens who hoarded theirknowledge so callously. There was just enough truth to be dangerous.
Bennington was close enough to the transmitter to explain the undertone oflynch law that permeated the editorial. 

"I'll put a stop to that," Flavin told Vie angrily. "I've got enough muscle tomake them pull a complete retraction. But it won't undo all of it." 

Vie felt the automatic, and it seemed less of a nuisance now. "I notice nonews on Pan-Asia's ultimatum." 

"Yeah. I hear the story was killed by Presidential emergency orders, and Pan-
Asia has agreed to a three-day stay—no more. My information isn't the best,
but I gather we'll bomb it with our own bombs if it isn't cleared up by then." 

Vie climbed out at the local station office, with the others trailing. In thewaiting room, a vaguely catlike male from Sardax waited, clutching a fewbroken ornaments and a thin sheaf of Galactic credits. One of his four arms 
was obviously broken and yellow blood oozed from a score of wounds. 

But he only shrugged at Vic's whistled questions, and his answer in Code wasunperturbed. "No matter. In a few moments, I ship to Chicago and then home. Myattackers smelled strongly of hate, but I escaped. Waste no time on me,
please." 

Then his whistle stopped at a signal from the routing office, and he hurriedoff, with a final sentence. "My attackers will live, I am told." 

Remembering the talons on the male's hands, Vie grinned wryly. The Sardaxianswere a peaceful race, but they were pragmatic enough to see no advantage inbeing killed. The mob had jumped on the wrong alien this time. But the othersraces. . . 

He threw the door to his little office open, and the four went in. It wasn'tuntil he started toward his desk that he noticed his visitor. 


The Galactic Envoy might have been the robot he claimed to be, but there wasno sign of it. He was dressed casually in expensive tweeds, lounginggracefully in a chair, with a touch of a smile on his face. Now he got up,
holding out a hand to Vie. 

"I heard you were running things, Peters. Haven't seen you since I helped pickyou for the first-year class, but I keep informed. 

Thought I'd drop by to tell you the Council has given official approval toyour full authority over the Earth branch of Teleport Interstellar, and I'vefiled the information with the U.N. and your President." 

Vie shook his head. Nice of them to throw it all on his shoulders. "Why me?" 

"Why not? You've learned all the theory Earth has, you've had more practicalexperience with more stations than anyone else, and you've picked Ptheela'sbrains dry by now. Oh, yes, we know about that; it's permissible in anemergency for her to decide to help. You're the obvious man." 

"I'd rather see one of your high and mighty Galactic experts take over!" 

The Envoy shook his head gently. "No doubt. But we've found that the racecausing the trouble usually is the race best fitted to solve it. The sameingenuity that maneuvered this sabotage—it was sabotage, by the way—will helpyou solve it, perhaps. The Council may not care much for your grab-first rulein economics and politics, but it never doubted that you represent one of themost ingenious races we have met. You see, there really are no inferiorraces." 

"Sabotage?" Pat shook her head, apparently trying to grasp it. "Who'd be thatstupid?" 

The Envoy smiled faintly. "The Knights of Terra are flowing with money, andthey are having a very successful recruiting drive. Of course, thoseresponsible had no idea of what risks they were taking for your planet. I'veturned the details over, of course." 

There was no mistaking his meaning. The Knights of Terra had been a mererabble of crackpots, without any financial power. But most of the industriesforced from competition by the transmitters had been the largest ones, sincethey tended to lack flexibility. Some of their leaders had taken it in goodgrace, but many had fought tooth and nail, and were still fighting. There wereenough men who had lost jobs, patent royalties, or other valuables due to thetransmitters. Even though the standard of living had risen and employment wasat a peak now, the period of transition had left bitter hatreds, and recruitsfor the hate groups should be easy enough to find for a well-heeled propagandadrive. 

"Earth for Earth, and down with the transmitters," Vie summed it 

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"They're stupid, of course. They forget that the transmitters can't be removedwithout Council workers," he said. "And when the Coun



cil revokes approval, it destroys all equipment and most books, while seeingthat three generations are brought up without knowledge. You'd revert to semi-
savagery and have to make a fresh start-up. Well, I'll see you, Vie. Goodluck." 

He left, still smiling. Flavin had been eyeing him with repressed dislike thatcame out now. "A helluva lot of nerve for guys who claim they don'tinterfere!" 

"It happened to us twice," Ptheela observed. "We were better for it,
eventually. The Council's rules are from half a billion years of experience,
with tremendous knowledge. We must submit." 

"Not without a fight!" 

Vie cut in. "Without a fight. We wouldn't have a chance. We're babes in armsto them. Anyhow, who cares? All the Congressional babble in Hades won't saveus if we lose our atmosphere. But the so-called leaders can't see it." 

The old idea—something would turn up. Maybe they couldn't turn off thetransmitter from outside, and had no way of getting past the wind to theinside. But something would turn up! 

He'd heard rumors of the Army taking over, and almost wished they would. As itstood, he had full responsibility—and nothing more. Flavin and the Council hadturned things over to him, but the local cop on the beat had more power. Itwould be a relief to have someone around to shout even stupid orders and getsome of the weight off his shoulders. 

Sabotage! It couldn't even be an accident; the cockeyed race to which hebelonged had to try to commit suicide and then expect him to save it. 

He shook his head, vaguely conscious of someone banging on the door, andreached for the knob. "Amos!" 

The sour face never changed expression as the corpselike figure of the manslouched in. But Amos was dead! He'd been in the transmitter. They allrealized it at once and swung toward the man. 

Amos shook off their remarks. "Nothing surprising, just common sense. When Isaw the capsule start cracking, I jumped for one headed for Plathgol, set thedelay, and tripped the switch. Saw some glass shooting at me, but I was inPlathgol next. Went out and got me a mess of tsiuna—they cook fair tomiddling, seeing they never tried it before they met us. Then T showed 'em mypass, came back through Chicago, took the local here, and went home; I figuredthe old woman would be worried. Nobody told me about the extent of 

the mess till I saw the papers. Common sense to report in to you, then. Sohere I am." 

"How much did you see of the explosion?" Pat asked. 

"Not much. Just saw it was cracking—trick glass, no temperature tolerance.
Looked like Earth color." 

It didn't matter. It added to Vic's disgust to believe it was sabotage, butdidn't change the picture otherwise. The Council wouldn't change its decision. 


They treated a race as a unit, making no exception for the behavior of a fewindividuals, whether good or bad. 

Another knock on the door cut off the vicious cycle of hopelessness. "Old homeweek, evidently. Come in!" 

The uniformed man who entered was the rare example of a fat man in the pink ofphysical condition, with no sign of softness. He shoved his bulk through thedoorway as if he expected the two stars on his shoulders to light the way andawe all beholders. "Who is Victor Peters?" 

Vie wiggled a finger at himself, and the general came over. He drew out anenvelope and dropped it on the desk, showing clearly that acting as amessenger was far beneath his dignity. "An official communication from thePresident of the United States!" he said mechanically, and turned to make hisexit back to the intercity transmitters. 

It was a plain envelope, without benefit of wax or seals. Vie ripped it open,
looked at the signature and the simple letterhead, and checked the signatureagain. He read it aloud to the others: 

" 'To Mr.'—dammit, officially I've got a doctor's degree!—'to Mr. VictorPeters, nominally'—oof!—'in charge of the Bennington branch of TeleportInterstellar'—I guess they didn't tell him it's nominally in charge of allEarth branches. Umm . . . 'You are hereby instructed to remove all personnelfrom a radius of five miles minimum of your Teleport branch not later thannoon, August 21, unless matters shall be satisfactorily culminated prior tothat time. Signed, Homer Wilkes, President of the United States of America.'" 

"Bombs!" Pat shuddered, while Vie let the message fall to the floor, kickingit toward the wastebasket. "That's what it has to mean. The fools—the damned 
fools! Couldn't they tell him what would happen? Couldn't they make him seethat it'll only make turning the transmitter off impossible—forever?" 

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Ptheela. "Maybe he had no choice—either he does it or some other power doesit." 

Then he came to his feet, staring at Vie. "My God, that's tomorrow noon!" 

Vie looked at the clock later and was surprised to see that it was alreadywell into the afternoon. The others had left him, Ptheela last when she foundthere was no more knowledge she could contribute. He had one of the electroniccalculators plugged in beside him and a table of the so-called Dirac functionspropped up on it; since the press had discovered that Dirac had predicted someof the characteristics that made teleportation possible, they'd namedeverything for him. 

The wastebasket was filled, and the result was further futility. He shoved thelast sheet into it, and sat there, pondering. There had to be a solution! 


Man's whole philosophy was built on that idea. 

But it was a philosophy that included sabotage and suicide. What did it matterany. . . 

Vie jerked his head up, shaking it savagely, forcing the fatigue back by sheerwill. There was a solution. All he had to do was find it —before the stupidityof war politics in a world connected to a Galaxy-wide union could prevent it. 

He pulled the calculator back, just as Flavin came into the room. The man waslosing weight, or else fatigue was creating that illusion. He dropped into achair as Vie looked up. 

"The men evacuated from around the station?" Vie asked. 

Flavin nodded. "Yeah. Some of the bright boys finally convinced them that theywere just wasting time, anyhow. Besides, the thing is still spreading andgetting too close for them. Vie, the news gets worse all the time. Can youtake it?" 

"Now what? Don't tell me they've changed it to tomorrow morning?" 

"Tomorrow hell! In two hours they're sending over straight blockbusters, radarcontrolled all the way. No atomics—yet—but they're jumping the gun, anyhow.
Some nut convinced Wilkes that an ordinary eight-ton job might just shakethings enough to fracture the glass that's holding the short. And Pan-Asia isgoing completely wild. I've been talking to Wilkes. The Generalissimo overthere probably only wanted to make a big fuss, but the people are scaredsilly, and they're preparing for quick war." 

Vie nodded reluctantly and reached for the Benzedrine he'd hoped to save forthe last possible moment, when it might carry him all the 

way through. What difference did it make? Even if he had an idea, he'd beunable to use it because a bunch of hopheads were busy picking themselves thestation as a site for target practice. 

"And yet . . ." He considered it more carefully, trying to figure percentages.
There wasn't a chance in a million, but they had to take even that one chance.
It was better than nothing. 

"It might just work—if they hit the right spot. I know where the glass is, andthe layout of the station. But I'll need authority to direct the bomb. Flavin,
can you get me President Wilkes?" 

Flavin shrugged and reached for the televisor. He managed to get quite a waysup by some form of code, but then it began to be a game of nerves and brass.
Along his own lines, he apparently knew his business. In less than fiveminutes, Vie was talking to the President. For a further few minutes, thescreen remained blank. Then another face came on, this time in militaryuniform, asking quick questions, while Vie pointed out the proper target. 

Finally the officer nodded. "Good enough, Peters. We'll try it. If you care towatch, you can join the observers—Mr. Flavin already knows where they will be.
How are the chances?" 

"Not good. Worth trying." 


The screen darkened again and Flavin got up. The thing was a wild gamble, butit was better to jar the building than to melt its almost impregnable walls.
Even Betz II metal couldn't take a series of hydrogen bombs without melting,
though nothing else could hurt it. And with that fury, the whole station wouldgo. 

They picked up Pat and moved out to Flavin's car. Vie knew better than to tryto bring Ptheela along. As an alien, she was definitely taboo around militaryaffairs. The storm had reached the city now, and dense clouds were pouringdown thick gouts of rain, leaving the day as black as night. The car sloggedthrough it, until Flavin opened the door and motioned them out into atemporary metal shelter. 

Things were already started. Remote scanners were watching the guided missilescome down, and mechanical eyes were operating in the bombs, working oninfrared that cut through the rain and darkness. It seemed to move slowly onthe screen at first, but picked up apparent speed as it drew near thetransmitter building. The shielding grew close, and Pat drew back with aninvoluntary jerk as it hit and the screen went blank. Dead center. 

But the remote scanners showed no change. The abrupt bieak m the airmotionwhere the transmitter field began, outside the shielding, still showed.
Another bomb came down, and others, each spaced 

so as to hit in time for others to be turned back if it worked. Even throughthe impossible tornado of rotating fury, it was super-precision bombing. 

But the field went on working, far beyond the shielding, pulling an impossiblenumber of cubic feet of air from Earth every second. They stopped watching thescreen shown by the bomb-eyes at last, and even the Army gave up. 

"Funny," one observer commented. "No sound, no flash when it hits. I've beenwatching the remote scanners every time instead of the eye, and nothinghappens. The bomb just disappears." 

Pat shook herself. "The field—they can't hit it. They go right through thefield, before they can hit. Vie, it won't matter if we do atom-bomb thestation. It can't be reached." 

But he was already ahead of her. "Fine. Ecthinbal will love that. TheEcthindar wake up to find exploding atomic bombs coming at them through thetransmitter. They've already been dosed with our chemical bombs. Now guesswhat they'll have to do." 

"Simple." It was the observer who got that. "Start feeding atom bombs intotheir transmitters to us. We get keyed in to receive automatically, right? Andwe receive enough to turn the whole planet radioactive." 

Then he shouted hoarsely, pointing through a window. From the direction of thestation, a dazzle of light had lanced out sharply, and was now fading down.
Vie snapped back to the remote scanner and scowled. The field was stillworking, and there was no sign of damage to the transmitter. If the Ecthindarhad somehow snapped a bomb into the station, it must have been retransmittedbefore full damage. 

The Army man stared sickly at the station, but Vie was already moving toward 


the door. Pat grabbed his arm, and Flavin was with them by the time theyreached the waiting car. "The Bennington office," Vie told the driver. "Andfast! Somebody has to see the Ecthindar in a hurry, if it'll do any good." 

"f m going too, Vie," Pat announced. But he shook his head. Her lips firmed.
"I'm going. Nobody knows much about Ecthinbal or the Ecthindar. You call inCode messages, get routine Code back. We can't go there without fancy pressuresuits, because we can't breathe their air. And they never leave. But I toldyou I was interested in races, and I have been trying to chitchat with them. Iknow some things—and you'll need me." 

He shook his head again. "They'll probably welcome us with open arms—firearms!
It's enough for one of us to get killed. If I fail, Amos 

can try—or Flavin. If he fails—well, suit yourself. It won't matter whetherthey kill me there or send through bombs to kill me here. But if one of us canget a chance to explain, it may make some difference. I dunno. But it may." 

Her eyes were hurt, but she gave in, going with him silently as he steppedinto the local Bennington unit and stepped out in Chicago, heading toward theChicago Interstellar branch. She waited patiently while the controlmen scoutedout a pressure suit for him. Then she began helping him fasten it and checkinghis oxygen equipment. "Come on back, Vie," she said finally. 

He chucked a fist under her chin lightly and kissed her quickly, keeping itcasual with a sureness he couldn't feel. "You're a good kid, Pat. I'll suretry." 

He pulled the helmet down and clicked it shut before stepping into the capsuleand letting the seal shut. He could see her swing to the interstellar phone,
her lips pursed in whistled code. The sound was muffled, but the lightschanged abruptly, and her hand hit the switch. 

There was no noticeable time involved. He was simply on Ecthin-bal, looking ata faintly greenish atmosphere, observable only because of the sudden change,
and fifty pounds seemed to have been added to his weight. The transmitter wasthe usual Betz II design, and everything else was familiar except for thecreature standing beside the capsule. 

The Ecthindar might have been a creation out of green glass, coated with asoft fur, and blown by a bottle-maker who enjoyed novelty. There were twothin, long legs, multijoined, and something that faintly resembled the pelvisof a skeleton. Above that, two other thin rods ran up, with a double bulbwhere lungs might have been, and shoulders like the collar pads of a footballplayer, joined together and topped by four hard knobs, each with a single eyeand orifice. Double arms ran from each shoulder, almost to the ground. 

He expected to hear a tinkle when the creature moved, and was surprised whenhe did hear it, until he realized the sound was carried through the metalfloor, not through the thin air. 

The creature swung open the capsule door after some incomprehensible processthat probably served to sterilize it. Its Galactic Code 

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the floor. The air was too thin to transmit sound normally. "We greet you,
Earthman. Our mansions are poor, but yours. Our lives 

are at your disposal." Then the formal speech ended in a sharp whistle.
"Literally, it would seem. We die." 

It didn't fit with Vic's expectations, but he tried to take his cue from it.
"That's why I'm here. Do you have some kind of a ruler? Umm, good. How do Iget to see this ruler?" He had few hopes of getting to see the ruler, but itnever did any harm to try. 

The Ecthindar seemed unsurprised. "Of course, I shall take you at once. Forwhat other purpose is a ruler but to serve those who wish to see it. But—Itrespass on your kindness in the delay—but may I question whether a strangelight came forth from your defective transmitter?" 

Vie snapped a look at it and nodded slowly. "It did." 

Now the ax would fall. He braced himself for it, but the creatureceremoniously repeated his nod. 

"I was one who believed it might. It is most comforting to know my science wastrue. When the bombs came through from you, we held them in an instant shield,
since we had expected some such effort on your part to correct yourtransmitter. But in our error, we believed them radioactive. We tried a newnegative aspect of space to counteract them. Of course, it failed, since theywere only chemical. But I had postulated that some might have escaped fromreceiver to transmitter, being negative. You are kind. You confirm my belief.
And now, if you will honor my shoulder with the touch of your hand, so that myportable unit will transport us both . . ." 

Vie reached out and the scene shifted at once. There was no apparenttransmitter, and the trick beat anything he had heard from other planets.
Perhaps it was totally unrelated to the teleport machine. But he had no timeto ask. 

A door in the little room where they were now opened, and another creaturecame in, this time single from pelvis to shoulders, but otherwise the same.
"The ruler has been requested," it whistled. "That which the ruler is shall beyours, and that which the ruler has is nothing. May the ruler serve?" 

It was either the most cockeyed bit of naivete" or the fanciest run-around Viehad found, but totally unlike anything he'd been prepared for. He gulped andbegan whistling out the general situation on Earth. 

The Ecthindar interrupted politely. "That we know. And the converse is true—wetoo are dying. We are a planet of thin air, and that little is chlorine. Nowfrom a matter transmitter comes a great rush of oxygen, which we considerpoison. Our homes around are burned 

in it, our plant life is dying of it, and we are forced to remain inside andseal ourselves off. Like you, we can do nothing—the wind from your world isbeyond our strength." 


"But your science. . ." 

"Is beyond yours, true. As is our average intelligence. We run from anarbitrary lowest of one to a highest of two relatively, however, while you runfrom perhaps a low of an eighth to a high of nearly three, as we figure. Welack both your very lows and your genius level—some of you are moreintelligent than any of us, though very few. But you are all adaptable, and weare too leisurely a race for that virtue." 

Vie shook his head, but perhaps it made good sense. "But the bombs . . ." 

A series of graceful gestures took place between the two creatures, and theRuler turned back to Vie. 

"The ruler had not known, of course. It was not important. We lost a fewthousand people whom we love. But we understood. There is no anger, though itpleases us to see that your courtesy extends across space to us incommiseration. May your dead pass well." 

That was at least one good break in the situation. Vie felt some of his worryslide aside to make room for the rest. "Then I don't suppose . . . Well, then,
have you any ideas on how we can take care of this mess. . . ." 

There was a shocked moment, with abrupt movements from the two creatures. Thensomething came up in the Ruler's hands, vibrating sharply. Vie jumped back—andfroze in mid-stride, to fall awkwardly onto the floor. A chunk of ice seemedto form in his backbone and creep along his spine, until it touched his brain.
Death or paralysis? It was all the same—he had air for only an hour more. Thetwo creatures were fluttering at each other and moving toward him when heblacked out. 

His first feeling was the familiar, deadening pull of fatigue as his sensesbegan to come back. Then he saw that he was in a tiny room —and that Pat laystretched out beside him! 

He threw himself up to a sitting position, surprised to find that there wereno aftereffects to whatever the Ruler had used. The darned fool, comingthrough after him! And now they had her, too. 

Surprisingly, her eyes snapped open, and she sat up beside him. "Darn it, Ialmost fell asleep waiting for you to revive. It's a good 

thing I brought extra oxygen flasks. Your hour is about up. How'd you insultthem?" 

He puzzled over it while she changed his oxygen flask and he did the same forher. "I didn't. I just asked whether there wasn't some way we could take careof this trouble." 

"Which meant to them that you suspected they weren't giving all the help theycould—after their formal offer when you came over. I convinced them it wasjust that you were still learning Code, whatever you said. They're nice, Vie.
I never really believed other races were better than we are, but I do now—andit doesn't bother me at all." 


"It'd bother Flavin. He'd have to prove they were sissies or something. How dowe get out?" 

She pushed the door open, and they stepped back into the room of the Ruler,
who was waiting for them. It made no reference to the misunderstanding, butinspected him, whistled approval of his condition, and plunged straight tobusiness. 

"We have found part of a solution, Earthman. We die—but it will be two weeksbefore our end. First, we shall set up a transmitter in permanent transmit,
equipped with a precipitator to remove our chlorine, and key it to another ofyour transmitters—whichever one you wish. Ecthinbal is heavy but small, and abalance will be struck between the air going from you and the air returning.
The winds between stations may disturb your weather, but not seriously, wehope. That which the Ruler is, is yours. A lovely passing." 

It touched their shoulders, and they were back briefly in the transmitter, tobe almost instantly back in the Chicago branch. Vie was still shaking hishead. 

"It won't work—the Ruler didn't allow for the way our gravity falls off andour air thins out a few miles higher up. We'd end up with maybe four poundspressure, which isn't enough. So we both die-two worlds on my shouldersinstead of one. Hell, we couldn't take that offer from them, anyhow. Pat,
how'd you convince them to let me go?" 

She had shucked out of the pressure suit and stood combing her hair. "Commonsense, as Amos says. I figured engineers consider each other engineers firstand aliens second, so I went to the head engineer instead of the Ruler. Hefixed it up somehow. I guess I must have sounded pretty desperate, at that,
knowing your air would give out after an hour." 

They went through the local intercity to Bennington, and on into 

Vic's office, where Flavin met them with open relief and a load of questions.
Vie let Pat answer, while he mulled over her words. Somewhere, there was anidea—let the rulers alone and go to the engineers. Some obvious solution thatthe administrators would try to understand, run into their preconceptions, andbe unable to use? He shoved it around in his floating memory, but it refusedto trigger an idea. 

Pat was finishing the account of the Ecthindar offer, but Flavin was notimpressed. Ptheela came in, and it had to be repeated for her, with much moreenthusiastic response. 

"So what?" Flavin asked. "They have to die, anyhow. Sure, it's a shame, but wehave our own problems. Hey—wait. Maybe there's something to it It'd take someguts and a little risk, but it might work." 

Flavin considered it while Vie waited, willing to listen to any scheme. Theman took a cigar out and lit it carefully, his first since the accident; he'dfelt smoking used up the air. "Look, if they work their transmitter, we end upwith a quarter of what we need. But suppose we had four sources. We connectwith several oxygen-atmosphere worlds. Okay, we load our transmitters withdelayed-action atom bombs and send one sample capsule to each world. Afterthat, they either open a transmitter to us with air, or we really let them 


have it. They can live—a little poorer, maybe, but still live. And we're fixedfor good. Congress and the President would jump at it." 

"That all?" Vie asked. 

Flavin nodded, just as Vic's fist caught him in the mouth, spilling him ontothe floor. The man lay there, feeling his jaw and staring up at Vie. Then theanger was gone, and Vie reached down to help him up. 

"You're half a decent guy and half a louse," he told Flavin. "You had thatcoming, but I should have used it on some of the real lice around. Besides,
maybe you have part of an idea." 

" 'Sail right, no teeth lost—just the first cigar I've enjoyed in days."
Flavin rubbed his jaw gingerly, then grinned ruefully. "I should have knownhow you feel. But I believe in Earth first. What's this big idea of yours?" 

"Getting our air through other planets. Our air. It's a routing job. If we canset up a chain so the air going out of one transmitter in a station isbalanced by air coming in another in the same station, there'd be a terrificdraft; but most of it would be confined in the station, and there wouldn't bethe outside whirlwind to keep us from 

getting near. Instead of a mad rush of air in or out of the building, there'dbe only eddy currents outside of the inner chamber. We'd keep our air, andmaybe have time to figure out some way of getting at that hunk of glass." 

"Vie! You honey!" Pat's shoulders straightened. But Flavin shook his head. 

"Won't work. Suppose Wilkes was asked to permit us to route through like thatfor another planet—-he'd have to turn it down. Too much risk, and he has toconsider our safety first." 

"That's where Pat gave me the tip. Engineers get used to thinking of eachother as engineers instead of competing races—they have to work together. Theyhave the same problems and develop the same working habits. If I were runninga station and the idea was put to me, I'd hate to turn it down, and I mightnot think of the political end. I've always wanted to see what happened incontinuous trans-mittal; I'll be tickled pink to get at the instrument rollsin the station. And a lot of other engineers will feel the same." 

"We're already keyed to Plathgol on a second transmitter in there," Pat added.
"They could send to us, though the other four transmitters were out of duty.
And the Ecthindar indicated they had full operation when it happened, sothey're keyed to five other planets that could trigger them to transmit. Butthey don't connect to Plathgol, as I remember the charts." 

"Bomb dropping starts in about four hours," Flavin commented. "Atomic, thistime. After that, what?" 

"No chance. They'll go straight through, and the Ecthindar can neutralizethem—but one is pretty sure to start blasting here and carry through in fullaction. Then there'll be no other transmitter in their station. Just a bigfield on permanent receive." 

"Then we'd better find a route from Ecthinbal to Plathgol— and get a lot ofpermissions—pronto!" Flavin decided. "And we need all the charts we can find." 


The engineers at the Chicago branch were busy shooting dice when the four camethrough the intercity transmitter. Ptheela had asked to accompany the threehumans, and her offer was welcome. More precisely, two engineers were playing.
There was no one else in the place, and no sign of activity. Word of theproposed bombing had leaked out and the engineers had figured that answeringbombs would come blasting back through all Earth teleports. They knew whatEarth governments would have done and didn't know of the Ecthindar philosophy.
The engineers had passed the word to other 

employees, and only these two were left, finishing a feud of long standing inthe time left. 

"Know anything about routing?" Vie asked. He'd already looked in the bigbarnlike building just outside the main shell, now empty of its normal crew.
When they indicated no knowledge, he chased them out on his TeleportInterstellar authority and took over. He had no need of more engineers, andthey were cynical enough about the eventual chances there to leave gladly. Viehad never had any use for Chicago's manager and the brash young crew he'dbuilt up; word shouldn't have gone beyond the top level. If it leaked out tothe general public, there'd be panic for miles around. 

But Chicago's routing setup was the best in the country, and he needed it. Nowhow did he go about getting a staff trained to use it? 

"Know how to find things here?" Flavin asked Pat. He accepted her nod, andlooked surprised at Ptheela's equally quick assent. Then he grinned at Vie andbegan shucking off his coat. "Okay, you see before you one of the best trafficmanagers that ever helped pull a two-bit railroad out of the red, before I gotbetter offers in politics. I'm good. You get me the dope, Vie can haggle onthe transmitter phones, and I'll route it." 

He was good. His mind could look at the complicated interlocking block oftransmitter groups and jump to the next step without apparent thought—and hehad to have information only once before engraving it on his mind. It was atough nut, since the stations housed six transmitters, keyed to six planetseach—but in highly varied combinations; each world had its own group of tie-
ins with planets. Routing was the most complicated job in the work. 

Plathgol was handled by Ptheela, who was still in good standing until hercouncil was informed of her breaking the Law by talking to Vie. There was notrouble there. But trouble soon developed. The Ecthinbal station had beenkeyed to only two other planets when the accident happened, it turned out.
Vromatchk was completely cold on the idea and flatly refused. Ee, the other,
seemed difficult. 

It surprised Vie, because it didn't fit with Pat's theories of engineers atall. He scowled at the phone, then whistled again. "All right, no matter. Yourzeal is commendable. Now put an engineer on!" 

The answering whistle carried a fumbling uncertainty of obvious surprise. "I—
how'd you know? I gave all the right answers." 

"Sure. Right off the Engineer Rule Sheet posted over the trans


mitter. No real engineer worries that much about them—he has more things tothink of. Put the engineer on." 


The answer was obstinate. "My father's asleep. He's tired. Call later." 

The connection went dead at once. Vie called Ecthinbal while clambering intothe big pressure suit. He threw the delay switch and climbed into the rightcapsule. A moment later, an Ecthindar was moving the capsule on a delicate-
looking machine to another transmitter. Something that looked like a smalltyranosaurus with about twenty tentacles instead of forelegs was staring athim a second later, and he knew he was on Ee. 

"Take me to the engineer!" he ordered. "At once." 

The great ridges of horny substance over the eyes came down in a surprisinglyhuman scowl. But the stubbornness was less certain in person. The creatureturned and led Vie out to a huge shack outside. In answer to a whooping cry, ahead the size of a medium-large car came out of the door, to be followed by atitanic body. The full-grown adult was covered with a thick coat of ropy hair. 

"Where from?" the Ee engineer whistled. "Wait—I saw a picture. Earth? Come in.
I hear you have quite a problem down there." 

Vie nodded. It came as a shock to him that the creature could probably handlethe whole station by itself, as it obviously did, and quite efficiently, withthat size and set of tentacles. He stated the problem quickly. 

The Looech, as it called itself, scratched its stomach with a row of tentaclesand pondered. "I'd like to help you. Oh, the empress would have fits, but Icould call it an accident. We engineers aren't really responsible togovernments, after all, are we? But it's the busy season. I'm already behind,
since my other engineer got in a duel. That's why the pup was tending while Islept. You say the field spreads out on continuous transmit?" 

"It does, but it wouldn't much, if there isn't too long a period ofoperation." 

"Strange. I've thought of continuous transmittal, of course, but I didn'tsuspect that. Why, I wonder?" 

Vie started to give Ptheela's explanation of unbalanced resonance between thevacuum of the center and the edges in contact with matter, but dropped itquickly. "I'll probably know better when I can read the results from theinstruments." 

The Looech grumbled to itself. "I suppose you wouldn't send me 

the readings—we're about on a Galactic level, so it wouldn't strain the lawtoo much." 

Vie shook his head. "If I can't complete the chain, there won't be anyreadings. I imagine you could install remote cutoffs fairly easily." 

"No trouble, though nobody ever seemed to think of them. I suppose it could becovered under our emergency powers, if we stretch them a little. Oh, blastyou. Now I won't sleep for worrying about why it spreads. When will youbegin?" 

Vie grinned tightly as they arranged the approximate time and let the Looech 


carry him back to the capsule. He flashed through Ecthinbal and climbed out ofthe Chicago transmitter to find Pat looking worriedly at the capsule, summonedby the untended call announcer. 

"You're right, Pat," he told her. "Engineers run pretty much to form. TellFlavin we've got Ee." 

But there were a lot of steps to be taken still. He ran into a stumbling blockat Noral, and had to wait for a change of shifts, before a sympatheticengineer cut the red tape to clear him. And negative decisions here and therekept Flavin jumping to find new routes. 

They almost made it, to find a decision had been reversed on them by someauthority who had gotten word of the deal. That meant that other authoritieswould probably be called in, with more reverses, in time. Once operating, theengineer could laugh at authority, since the remote cutoff could be easilyhidden. But time was running out. There were only twenty-seven minutes leftbefore the bombs would be finally ordered dropped, and it would take fifteento countermand their being dropped. 

"Give me that," Flavin ordered, grabbing the phone. "There are times when ittakes executives instead of engineers. We're broken at Seloo. Okay, we don'tknow where Seloo ships." His Galactic Code was halting, but fairly effective.
The mechanical chirps from the Seloo operator leaped to sudden haste. A shortpause was followed by an argument Vie was too tired to catch until the finalsentence of assent. Then Pat took over, to report shortly to Flavin. "Enad toBrjd to Teeni clear." 

"Never heard of Brjd," Vie commented. 

Flavin managed a ghost of a swagger. "Figured our lists were only partial andwe could stir up another link. Here's the final list. I'll get 

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until we see how it works." 

It was a maze, but the list was complete; from Earth to Ecthinbal, Ee, Petzby,
Noral, Szpendrknopalavotschel, Seloo, Brjd, Teeni, and finally throughPlathgol to Earth. Vie whistled the given signal and the acknowledgments camethrough. It was in operation. And Flavin's nod indicated Wilkes had confirmedit and held off the bombs. 

Nothing was certain, still; it might or might not do the trick. But thetension dropped somewhat. Flavin was completely beaten. He hadn't had decentexercise for years, and running from communications to routing had been almostcontinual. He flopped over on a shipping table. Ptheela bent over him andbegan massaging him with deft strokes of her arms. He grumbled, but gave in,
then sighed gratefully. 

"Where'd you learn that?" 

She managed an Earth giggle. "Instinct. My ancestors were plants that caughtanimals for food. We had all manner of ways to entice them—not just odor andlooks. I can feel exactly how your body feels in the back of my head. Umm, 


delicious!" 

He struggled at that picture, his face changing color. Her arms moved slowly,
and he relaxed. Finally he reached for a cigar. "I'll have nightmares, I'llbet—but it's worth it. Oh-oh, some of the rulers are catching on, and don'tlike it!" 

The minimum staff left in Bennington was reporting by normal televisorcontact, but while things seemed to be improving, they couldn't get nearenough to be sure. The tornado around the city was abating, they thought, butEarth's weather patterns were slow to change, once thoroughly upset. The fieldwas apparently collapsing as the air was fed inside it, but very slowly. 

Ptheela needed no sleep, but Flavin was already snoring. Pat shook her head asVie started to pull himself up on a table. She led him outside to the back ofone of the sheds, where a blanket lay on a cot, apparently used by one of thesupervisors. She pushed him toward it. As he started to struggle at the ideaof using the only soft bed, she dropped onto it herself and pulled him down. 

"Don't be silly, Vie. It's big enough for both, and it's better than thosetables." 

It felt like pure heaven, narrow through it was. But his body was too tired torespond properly. The tension remained, reminding him that nothing was sureyet. Beside him, Pat stirred restlessly. He rolled over, pulling himselfcloser to her, off the hard edge of the cot, his arm over and around her. 

For a moment, he thought she was protesting, but she merely turned over toface him, settling his arm back. In the half-light, her eyes met his, wide andserious. Her lips trembled briefly under his, then clung firmly. Her body slidagainst him, drawing tighter, and his own responded, reaching for the comfortand end of tension hers could bring. 

It was automatic, almost unconscious, and yet somehow warm and personal, withan edge of tenderness all the cloudiness of it could not dull. Then she layrelaxed in his arms while his own muscles released themselves to the soft 
comfort of the cot. She smiled faintly, pushing his hair back. 

"I'm glad it's you, Vie," she said softly. Then her eyes closed as he startedto answer, and his own words disappeared into a soft fog of sleep. 

The harsh rasp of a buzzer woke him, while a light blinked on and off near hishead. He shook some of the sleep confusion out of his thoughts and made out anintercom box. Flavin's voice came over it sharply as he flipped the switch. 

"Vie—where the hell are you? Never mind. Wilkes just woke me with his call.
Vie, it's helped—but not enough. The field is about even with the buildingnow. But it's stopped shrinking, and we're still losing air. There's too muchloss at Ecthinbal, and at Ee—the engineer there didn't get the portals cappedright, and Ecthinbal can't do anything. We're getting about two thirds of ourair back. And Wilkes can't hold the pressure for bombing much longer! Get inhere!" 

"Where's Ptheela?" Vie asked as he came into the communication and transmitter 
room. She needed no sleep and should have been taking care of things. 


"Gone—back to Plathgol, I guess. Said something about an appeal. She wasflicking out by the time I really woke up. Rats deserting the sinking ship,
seems to me—though I had her figured different. It just shows you can't trusta plant." 

Vie swept his attention to the communicator panel. The phones were still busy.
They were still patient—even the doubtful ones were now accepting things; butit couldn't last forever. Even without the risk, the transmitter banks wereneeded for regular use. Many did not have inexhaustible power sources, either. 

A new note cut in over the whistling now, and he turned to the 

Plathgol phone, wondering what Ptheela wanted. The words were English. But thevoice was different. 

"Plathgol calling. This is Thlegaa, Wife of Twelve Husbands, Supreme PlathgolTeleport Engineer, Ruler of the Council of United Plathgol, and HereditaryGoddess, if you want the whole routine. Ptheela just gave me the bad news. Whydidn't you call on us before —or isn't our air good enough for you?" 

"Hell, do you all speak English?" Vie asked, too surprised to care whether hecensored his thoughts. "Your air always smelled good to me. Are you serious?" 

The chuckle this time wasn't a mere imitation. Thlegaa had her intonation downexactly. "Sonny, up here we speak whatever our cultural neighbors do. Youshould hear my French nasals and Hebrew rough-breathings. Now that you know wecan speak, there's no point in keeping the law against free communication. AndI'm absolutely on the level. We're pulling the stops off the transmitterhousing. We run a trifle higher pressure than you, so we'll probably make upyour whole loss. But I'm not an absolute ruler, so it might be a good idea tospeed things up. You can thank me later. Oh— since she broke the law before itwas repealed, Ptheela's been exiled. So when you get your Bennington plantworking, she'll probably be your first load from us. She's packing now." 

Flavin's face held too much relief. Vie hated to disillusion him as the man 
babbled happily about knowing deep down all along that the Plathgolians wereswell people. But he knew the job was a long ways from solved. With Plathgolsupplying extra air, the field would collapse back to the inside of the singletransmitter housing, and there should be an even balance of ingoing andoutcoming air, which would end the rush of air into the station and make thecircular halls passable, except for eddy currents. But getting into the innerchamber, where the air formed a gale between the two transmitters, was anothermatter. 

Flavin's chauffeur was asleep at the wheel of the car as they came out of theBennington local office, but instinct seemed to rouse him, and the car cut offwildly for the Interstellar station. Vie had noticed that the cloud around itwas gone, and a mass of people were grouped nearby. The wind that had beensucked in and around it to prevent even a tank getting through was gone now,
though the atmosphere would nrobablv shnw sicm nf if- in -freak wppfhprrpnnrte fr>r wppts 

J.J , --. . ~~ly. ~ 
—— --————— —— '• 
————— •———— —— — -——£•--—-———— —— —— 

after. 

Pat had obviously figured out the trouble remaining, and didn't 

look too surprised at the gloomy faces of the transmitter crew who weregrouped near the north entrance. But she began swearing under her breath, asmethodically and levelly as a man. Vie was ripping his shirt off as they drewup. 

"This time you stay out," he told her. "It's strictly a matter of muscle poweragainst wind resistance—and a man has a woman beat there." 

"Why do you think I was cursing?" she asked. "Take it easy, though." 

The men opened a way for him. He stripped to his briefs and let them smear himwith oil to cut down air resistance a final fraction. Eddy currents caught athim before he went in, but not too strongly. Getting past the first shieldingwasn't too bad. He found the second entrance port through the middle shieldand snapped a chain around his waist. 

Then the full picture of what must have happened on Plathgol hit him. Chainswouldn't have helped when they pulled off the coverings from the entrances—thesudden rush of air must have crushed their lungs and broken their bones—orwhatever supported them— no matter what was done. Imagine volunteering forsure death to help another world! He had to make good on his part. 

He got to the inner portal, but the eddies there were too strong to gofarther. Even sticking his head beyond the edge almost sucked him into theblast between the two transmitters. Then he was crawling out again. 

Amos met him, shaking a gloomy head. "Never make it, Vie. Common sense. I'vebeen partway in there three times with no luck. And the way that draft blows,
it'd knock even a tractor plumb out of the way before it could reach thatglass." 

Vie nodded. The tanks would take too long, anyhow, though it would be a goodidea to have them called. He yelled to Flavin, who came over at a run, whileVie was making sure that the little regular office building still stood. 

"Order the tanks, if we need them," he suggested. "And get them to ship in arifle, some hard-nosed bullets, an all-angle vise big enough to clamp on athree-inch edge, and two of those midget tele-sets for use between house andfield—quick." 

Amos stared at him, puzzled, but Flavin's car was already roaring towardBennington, with a couple of cops leading the way with open sirens. He wasback with everything in twenty minutes. 

Vie motioned to Amos questioningly and received an answering 

nod. The man was old, but he must be tough to have made three tries inside.
Pat was setting the midget pickup in front of the still-operating televisorbetween the transmitter chamber and the little office. Vie picked up thereceiver and handed the rest of the equipment to Amos. 

It was sheer torture fighting back to the inner entrance port, but they madeit, and Amos helped to brace him with the chain while Vie clamped the vise to 


the edge of the portal and locked the rifle into it, somehow fighting it intoplace. In the rather ill-defined picture on the tiny set's screen, he couldsee the shard of glass, out of line from either entrance, between two coveringuprights. He could just see the rifle barrel, also. The picture lost detail inbeing transmitted to the little office and picked up from the screen forretransmittal back to him, but it would have to do. 

The rifle was loaded to capacity with fourteen cartridges. He lined it up asbest he could and tightened the vise, before pulling the trigger. The bulletricocheted from the inner shield and headed toward the glass—but it missed bya good three feet. 

He was close on the fifth try—not over four inches off. But clinging to theedge while he reset the vise each time before he pulled the trigger wasgetting harder, and the wind velocity inside was tossing the bullets offcourse. 

He left the setting and fired four more shots in succession before he had tostop to rest. They were all close, but scattered. That could keep up all day,
seemingly. 

"Better let me try, Vie," Amos shouted over the roar of the wind inside. "Beenplaying pool, making bank shots, more than thirty years. And I had a rifle inmy hands long before that" 

He pulled himself into place, made a trifling adjustment on the vise setting,
and squeezed the trigger. Then he leaned against the rifle stock slightly,
took a deep breath, let it out, and fired again. There was no sound over theroar of the wind—and then there was a sound, as if the gale in there hadstopped to cough. 

A blast of air struck them, picking them up and tossing them against the wall.
Vie had forgotten the lag before the incoming air could be cut! And it couldbe as fatal as the inrush alone. 

But it was dying as he struck. His flesh was bruised from the shock, but itwasn't serious. Plathgol had managed to make their remote control cut outalmost to the microsecond of the time when the flow to them had stopped, orthe first pressure released—and transmitter waves were supposed to beinstantaneous. 

He tasted the feeling of triumph as he crawled painfully back. With thistransmitter off and the others remotely controlled, the whole business wasover. Ecthinbal had keyed out automatically when Earth stopped sending. Andfrom now on, every transmitter would have a full set of remote controls, sothe trouble could never happen again. 

He staggered out, unhooking the chain, while workmen went rushing in. Pat camethrough the crowd with a towel and a pair of pants, to begin wiping the oiloff him while he tried to dress. Her grin was a bit shaky, and he knew it musthave looked bad when the final counterblast whipped out. 

Amos was busy cleaning himself off, and Vie grinned at him. "Good shooting,
Amos. I guess it's all solved." 

The old man nodded. "Sure. Took a little common sense, that's all." 


From the crowd, the Galactic Envoy shoved through, holding out his hands tothem and smiling. "Co-operative sense, you mean, and that's not as common asit should be on any world. And, Amos, you'll be glad to know you're not undersuspicion any longer. I have been able to furnish your government with a listof the real saboteurs, and they're all in custody. As I told you, I'm only anobserver—but a very good observer of all that goes on!" 

"Figured I'd be on the list. Common sense when I was closest to the accidentand got away," Amos .said. He shrugged. "You going to let the guys who did itget regular Earth trials?" 

"Certainly," the Envoy answered. "It looks better. Nice work, Pat, Vie, Amos—
you, too, Flavin. I wasn't sure you had it in you. You solved it—by findingyou could co-operate with other worlds, which is the most mature way you couldhave solved it. So I consider that Plathgol and Earth have passed the finaltest, and are now full members, under Ecthinbal's tutelage. We're a littleeasier at lending a hand and passing information to proven planets.
Congratulations! But you'll hear all about it in the news when I make the fullannouncement. See you around—I'm sure of that." 

He was gone, barely in time for Ptheela to come trooping up with six thin,
wispy versions of herself in tow. She chuckled. "They promoted me before theybanished me, Pat. Meet my six strong husbands. Now I'll have the strongestseed on all Earth. Oh, I almost forgot. A present for you and Vie." 

Then she also was gone, leading her husbands toward Flavin's car 

while Vie stared down at a particularly ugly tsiuna in Pat's hands. He grinneda bit ruefully. 

"All right. I'll learn to eat the stuff," he told her. "I suppose 111 have toget used to it. Pat, will you marry me?" 

She dropped the tsiuna into Amos' hands as she came to him, her lips reachingup for his. It wasn't until a month later that he found tsiuna tasted slightlybetter than chicken. 

A few days after the sale of the novelette to Gold, Scott Meredith called mein to have a long talk with me. He didn't bother to say so, but it was myagent and friend discussing things with me, not my employer. He wanted to goover my affairs with me and see just where things stood. 

My earnings for the past few months were quite enough for me to live on, evenwithout the salary from working at the office. And the prospects were evenbetter. I had a contract for a fact book on atomic power. (That turned out tobe what is called a critical success. It was widely praised and placed on theNew York Public Library's recommended book list. But the publisher never gotit out properly, and my final sales came to something like 740 copies!) I'destablished myself in a number of fields of pulp fiction, and several editorswere beginning to ask for my work. And I was back to doing science fiction,
which was a booming market that paid well. Scott assured me that he could selleverything I wrote—a promise which he's kept for all the years since. 

So obviously it made no sense for me to treat writing as a part-time job.
Writing at night was fine, if I liked to do it that way; but it wasn't fineafter a day at the office. It was time I made up my mind that I was aprofessional writer who didn't need any other job. 


We'd discussed that before, but not in detail, and with no date in mind. Butnow we decided that I should work one more month and then quit. 

There were three bits of science fiction written during that final month, andI originally meant to include them. But I've decided against it now. The truecutoff date was the moment when I decided I was a professional, not the timewhen I finally cleaned up and left the office. 

It took me almost exactly twelve years after the publication of my first storyto decide that my job was writing, and that it was more than one of mynumerous interests. It was a little hard to realize, but 

my principal feeling was one of relief at having finally made the decision.
It's always a good thing to know that one is doing exactly what one should bedoing. 

So this is the story of twelve years of fumbling along on the road to being ascience fiction writer, with those examples which haven't already beencollected in volumes of my work. 

I left the office in May 1950. And since then, my principal source of incomehas always been my writing. 

I've done other things, but they've been connected with the field, and are by-
products of my writing. I've edited magazines (four at one time, for a while),
reviewed books, lectured and taught courses in schools. And all of that isgood, because I think a man should have at least some experience with everyaspect of the field in which he works. I've been well enough recognized by thereaders of science fiction to make the job seem properly rewarding, too; I'veserved as toastmaster and guest of honor at world conventions, and I've beeninvited to be guest of honor at a number of smaller conventions. 

There have been bad times, too—but mostly of my own devising. I went through avery long slump once, where I seemed totally unable to write. But the royaltyfrom the juvenile books and the subsidiary rights to old stories were enoughto keep me going. And eventually the slump disappeared one day, as slumpsalways will, if a writer refuses to panic. 

The world of science fiction has been good to me. It has opened up a wholecosmos to me in innumerable marvelous stories. It has granted me a professionI enjoy and a reasonable amount of honor. And from it, I have drawn a largenumber of friends among editors, writers, and fans—the best and mostinteresting friends anyone could want. To a very large extent, it has madethose friends relate to me as if we were all of one family, sharing our joysand sorrows and uniting in an ever-expanding common interest. 

To me, it is the best of all possible—and sometimes impossible-worlds. 

APPENDIX 

/ 

The Fantasy and Science Fiction of the Early Years 

STORY 


(Words) 
MAGAZINE 
Issue 
COLLECTION 
1 THE FAITHFUL (4,000) 
2 ... And It Comes Out Here (6,000) 
3 Ice 
(12,000) 
4 Helen O'Loy (4.5°°) 
5 CROSS OF FIRE (3,000) 
6 The Day Is Done (6,000) 
7 A Very Simple Man (5,000) 
8 The Luck of Ig-natz (12,700) 
9 Forsaking All Others (5,000) 
10 The Coppersmith (6,000) 
Astounding Science The Early del Rey Fiction April 1938 
Galaxy Science Fiction Mortals and Monsters February 1951 
Astounding Science Fiction December 1938 
Weird Tales April 1939 
Astounding Science Fiction May 1939 
Astounding Science Fiction August 1939 
Unknown 
August 1939 
Unknown 
September 1939 
And Some Were Human 
The Early del Rey 
And Some Were Human 
And Some Were Human 


And Some Were Human Robots and Changelings 
Notes: Stories in CAPITAL LETTERS appear in this volume. 
Other collections referred to are those from Ballantine Books. 
STORY 
(Words) 
11 ANYTHING (5,600) 
12 The Hands of the Gods (5,000) 
13 HABIT (4,800) 
14 Glory (5,000) 
1J THE SMALLEST GOD (14,5<X>) 
16 Fade-Out (3,8oo) 
17 THE STARS LOOK DOWN (15,000) 
18 Coincidence (5,ooo) 
19 The Late Henry Smith (6,000) 
20 DOUBLED IN BRASS 
(6,400) 
21 Miracles, Second Class (6,400) 
22 REINCARNATE (ll,000) 
23 The Pipes of Pan (6,000) 
24 Dark Mission (6,400) 
25 CARILLON OF 
SKULLS (6,400) 
26 DONE WITHOUT EAGLES (6400) 
MAGAZINE 
Issue 
COLLECTION 
Unknown The Early del Rey October 1939 
Astounding Science The Early del Rey Fiction November 1939 



Astounding Science The Early del Rey Fiction January 1940 
Astounding Science The Early del Rey Fiction August 1940 
Unknown 
January 1940 
Astounding Science Fiction April 1940 
Unknown 
May 1940 
Astounding Science Fiction July 1940 
Unknown 
February 1941 
Astounding Science Fiction August 1940 
The Early del Rey 
The Early del Rey 
Robots and Changelings And Some Were Human 
The Early del Rey The Early del Rey 
STORY 
(Words) 
27 The Boaster (5,000) 
28 Milksop (6,400) 
29 Hereafter, Inc. (4,5oo) 
30 The Wings of Night (6,500) 
31 MY NAME IS 
LEGION (1O,OOO) 

32 THOUGH POPPIES GROW (l2,6oo) 
33 Nerves (30,000) 
34 LUNAR LANDING (2O,OOO) 
35 FIFTH FREEDOM (8,000) 
36 WHOM THE GODS LOVE (4,300) 
37 Misdirection (6,200) 


38 The Renegade (6,400) 
39 THOUGH DREAMEHS DIE (8,OOO) 
40 Kindness (5,7°°) 
MAGAZINE 
Issue 
COLLECTION 
Unknown Worlds December 1941 
Astounding Science Fiction March 1942 
Astounding Science Fiction June 1942 
Unknown Worlds August 1942 
Astounding Science Fiction September 1942 
Astounding Science Fiction October 1942 
Astounding Science Fiction May 1943 
Astounding Science Fiction June 1943 
Astounding Science Fiction July 1943 
Astounding Science Fiction February 1944 
Astounding Science Fiction October 1944 
And Some Were Human And Some Were Human 
The Early del Rey 
The Early del Rey 
Nerves 
The Early del Rey The Early del Rey The Early del Rey 
And Some Were Human The Early del Rey Robots and Changelings 
STORY 
(Words) 
41 FOOL'S ERRAND 
(a,ioo) 
43 THE ONE-EYED 


MAN (8,000) 
43 Into Thy Hands (8,000) 
44 AND THE DARKNESS (7,000) 
45 SHADOWS OF 
EMPIRE (6,500) 
46 UNREASONABLE FACSIMILE (6,300) 
47 Uneasy Lies the Head (6,500) 
48 CONDITIONED 
REFLEX (6,600) 
49 OVER THE TOP (5,000) 
50 The Monster (5,000) 
51 WIND BETWEEN THE WORLDS (17,500) 
MAGAZINE 
Issue 
COLLECTION 
The Early del Key 
The Early del Rey 
Robots and Changelings 
Science Fiction Quarterly November 1951 
Astounding Science Fiction May 1945 
Astounding Science Fiction August 1945 
Out of This World The Early del Rey Adventures July 1950 
Future/Science Fiction The Early del Rey Stories July-August 1950 
Future Science Fiction The Early del Rey July 1952 
Ten Story Fantasy Robots and Changelings Spring 1951 
Future/Science Fiction The Early del Rey Stories May 1951 
Astounding Science The Early del Rey Fiction November 1949 
Argosy Robots and Changelings June 1951 
Galaxy Science Fiction The Early del Rey March 1951