Datasets:

EJinHF

/

OQFS_SQuALITY

like 0

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home. You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet! Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing. Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib? Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff! Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh? Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants— Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll— Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way! You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope. Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out! <doc-sep>The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of thesoporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for thefirst time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazylethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of theinterval. It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strappingthemselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harperwas waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out ofthe hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked bypneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martiancopper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by adozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly highstate of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done withouthis knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients inwheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorialduties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang theexpense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction andproneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trainedoffice staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialitiesof these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them intothe field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Brisklyhe went over to the desk. He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacythat was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with thedesk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of arobot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in thestress of the argument. A nurse! shouted the woman. I want a nurse! A real woman! For whatyou charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I wantone! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do youhear? No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.The clerk flinched visibly. Now, Mrs. Jacobsen, he soothed. You knowthe hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now? Toothily hesmiled at the enraged woman. That's just it! Mrs. Jacobsen glared. The service is too good.I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I wantsomeone to hear what I say! I want to be able to change my mind oncein awhile! Harper snorted. Wants someone she can devil, he diagnosed. Someoneshe can get a kick out of ordering around. With vast contempt hestepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. One moment, sir, begged that harassed individual. Just one moment,please. He turned back to the woman. But she had turned her glare on Harper. You could at least be civilenough to wait your turn! Harper smirked. My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't anormal human trait. Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckonedauthoritatively to the clerk. I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for arest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuingyour—ah—discussion with the lady. The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing wasHarper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper'simplacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from hisforehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about todeposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blowand another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow. This is a helluva joint! roared the voice. Man could rot away to theknees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service! Again his fistbanged the counter. The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and theirate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper. Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable. With apallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of asilent and efficient robot. <doc-sep>The room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clearwindows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views ofthe Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi werebusy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him andhis associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering howto extract them economically and to process them on this more than aridand almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;mere details.... Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went upto the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut withconsomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark bluesky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phasewhile Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slimcigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribneyhad certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung thebell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense ofwell-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw thatthey were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had nofurther opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinatedmovements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypointo his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling himout. Harper's tongue finally functioned. What's all this? he demanded.There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go! He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.Inexorably it pushed him flat. You've got the wrong room! yelled Harp. Let me go! But the hypobegan to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, ashe drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,at that. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>There was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think itout. For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal thatmade him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinkingmud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, hewas sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until hegagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and thenstood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged andexercised him. Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and thephone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for twoweeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. Persecution, that's what it is! he moaned desperately. And he turnedhis back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to lookflesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had becomeaccustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping forhours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such anappetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush theysent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as hecould wake up enough to be. He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,still moaning about his lack of treatments. Nothin' yet, he gloomilyinformed Harp. They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can'tfind any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and theelevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get aman or he's stuck. Stuck! snarled Harp. I'm never stuck! And I'm damned if I'll waitany longer to break out of this—this jail! Listen, Jake. I've beenthinking. Or trying to, with what's left of me. You came in just whenthat assinine clerk was registering me. I'll bet that clerk got rattledand gave me the wrong key. I'll bet you're supposed to have this roomand I'm getting your treatments. Why don't we switch rooms and see whathappens? Say, maybe you're right! Jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. I'llget my clothes. Harp's eyebrows rose. You mean they left you your clothes? Why, sure. You mean they took yours? Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. Leave your things, will you?I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I haveto go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that. Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. Maybeyou could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It'sokay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there inthat fancy lobby. Harper looked at his watch. Time to go. Relax, old man. The robotswill be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'msure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don'tworry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right. Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new roomhe watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor forhis first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake'sclothing. The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father'sclothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head stickingup on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he wasshoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's numbertwelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch fromhis image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.This is room 618, he said authoritatively. Send up the elevator forme. I want to go down to the lobby. He'd guessed right again. It will be right up, sir, responded therobot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled tothe elevator. <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby. He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control. The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths! No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes. Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it! Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate. That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please. This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind. Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began. Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat! Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. My robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things! Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation. Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate. Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly. Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you? Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment. Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced? Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors. With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator. Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot. <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Harper Breen is exhausted. His business worries are keeping him up at night, and he hasn't had a proper night's sleep in too long. His brother in law, Scribney , suggests paying a visit to a hotel on mars, where they have equatorial wells which cure people's ailments. There is also a fungus that grows there that breaks down crude oil, a financial gold mine! Harper decides to go to this hotel, both for rest and the opportunity of getting into this new fungi business. After what seems like a mere number of hours, the rocket comes into land, and Harper goes directly to the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Harper notices the beauty of his surroundings, and how the entire hotel is staffed by very efficient, silent robots. He goes over to the desk, where a woman is complaining to the clerk about the treatment she is receiving from these robots. Harper decides to go over and interrupt the conversation, asking for his room key. A large man walks over, also asking for service. In a panic, the clerk hastily gives a room key to Harper, and hands him off to a robot to show him to his room. Harper arrives in his room where he gets settled, and then makes his way to the restaurant. Suddenly, Harper wakes up to see two robots bending over him. They take him by force and wheel him away into surgery. Harper wakes up to find the same man from the clerk desk knocking at his door. The man introduces himself as Jake Ellis, of Hagerty's Enzymes. He works on the tundra in the fungus plants. Two more robots enter and take Harper away again. Hey put him through a rigorous amount of detoxing procedures that wipe him out. He speaks with Ellis again, who complains that he hasn't received any treatments yet. Harper proposes that the clerk probably mixed up their room keys. They decide to switch rooms and clothes to see what happens. Harper goes to Ellis' room, puts on his clothes, and walks down to the lobby, where he meets the clerk once again. He demands to see the manager, and after an altercation, the clerk shows him to his office. Harper states to the manager that he is Harper S. Breen, of Breen and Helgart Inc. He complains to him about the treatment he had received because the clerk mixed up his room key.The manager tells him to sue if he wants, the business is already failing. He knows the robots are turning people away. Breen tells the manager that he could take the robots off his hands, for a reasonable price, that way the hotel would be able to afford real nurses again. Harper arrives back on Earth to tell his sister and brother in law that he has bought out Hagerty's Enzymes, and staffed it with the robots from the hotel.

What is the main setting of the story [SEP] <s> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home. You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet! Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing. Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib? Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff! Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh? Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants— Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll— Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way! You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope. Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out! <doc-sep>The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of thesoporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for thefirst time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazylethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of theinterval. It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strappingthemselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harperwas waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out ofthe hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked bypneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martiancopper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by adozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly highstate of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done withouthis knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients inwheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorialduties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang theexpense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction andproneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trainedoffice staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialitiesof these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them intothe field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Brisklyhe went over to the desk. He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacythat was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with thedesk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of arobot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in thestress of the argument. A nurse! shouted the woman. I want a nurse! A real woman! For whatyou charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I wantone! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do youhear? No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.The clerk flinched visibly. Now, Mrs. Jacobsen, he soothed. You knowthe hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now? Toothily hesmiled at the enraged woman. That's just it! Mrs. Jacobsen glared. The service is too good.I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I wantsomeone to hear what I say! I want to be able to change my mind oncein awhile! Harper snorted. Wants someone she can devil, he diagnosed. Someoneshe can get a kick out of ordering around. With vast contempt hestepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. One moment, sir, begged that harassed individual. Just one moment,please. He turned back to the woman. But she had turned her glare on Harper. You could at least be civilenough to wait your turn! Harper smirked. My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't anormal human trait. Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckonedauthoritatively to the clerk. I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for arest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuingyour—ah—discussion with the lady. The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing wasHarper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper'simplacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from hisforehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about todeposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blowand another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow. This is a helluva joint! roared the voice. Man could rot away to theknees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service! Again his fistbanged the counter. The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and theirate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper. Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable. With apallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of asilent and efficient robot. <doc-sep>The room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clearwindows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views ofthe Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi werebusy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him andhis associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering howto extract them economically and to process them on this more than aridand almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;mere details.... Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went upto the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut withconsomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark bluesky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phasewhile Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slimcigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribneyhad certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung thebell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense ofwell-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw thatthey were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had nofurther opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinatedmovements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypointo his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling himout. Harper's tongue finally functioned. What's all this? he demanded.There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go! He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.Inexorably it pushed him flat. You've got the wrong room! yelled Harp. Let me go! But the hypobegan to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, ashe drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,at that. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>There was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think itout. For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal thatmade him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinkingmud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, hewas sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until hegagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and thenstood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged andexercised him. Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and thephone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for twoweeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. Persecution, that's what it is! he moaned desperately. And he turnedhis back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to lookflesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had becomeaccustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping forhours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such anappetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush theysent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as hecould wake up enough to be. He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,still moaning about his lack of treatments. Nothin' yet, he gloomilyinformed Harp. They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can'tfind any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and theelevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get aman or he's stuck. Stuck! snarled Harp. I'm never stuck! And I'm damned if I'll waitany longer to break out of this—this jail! Listen, Jake. I've beenthinking. Or trying to, with what's left of me. You came in just whenthat assinine clerk was registering me. I'll bet that clerk got rattledand gave me the wrong key. I'll bet you're supposed to have this roomand I'm getting your treatments. Why don't we switch rooms and see whathappens? Say, maybe you're right! Jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. I'llget my clothes. Harp's eyebrows rose. You mean they left you your clothes? Why, sure. You mean they took yours? Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. Leave your things, will you?I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I haveto go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that. Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. Maybeyou could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It'sokay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there inthat fancy lobby. Harper looked at his watch. Time to go. Relax, old man. The robotswill be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'msure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don'tworry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right. Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new roomhe watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor forhis first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake'sclothing. The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father'sclothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head stickingup on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he wasshoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's numbertwelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch fromhis image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.This is room 618, he said authoritatively. Send up the elevator forme. I want to go down to the lobby. He'd guessed right again. It will be right up, sir, responded therobot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled tothe elevator. <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby. He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control. The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths! No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes. Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it! Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate. That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please. This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind. Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began. Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat! Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. My robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things! Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation. Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate. Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly. Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you? Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment. Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced? Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors. With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator. Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot. <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the main setting of the story

The main setting of the story in the Emerald Star Hotel. The half acre wide floor is covered with grey carpeting. There are glass walls which tint the light from the sun green. Outside are stunning domed gardens in a dozen acre lot. The lobby which holds the clerks desk is huge. Harper's room inside the hotel is stunning. The walls are made from the same green glass, which are accentuated with windows which look out onto the Martian hinterland. On the top of the skyscraper hotel is a domed roof restaurant, which is furnished with cushioned chairs. In another area of the hotel is a hospital, where it treats patients. Near the lobby is the manager's office.

Why do the robots not make good hotel staff? [SEP] <s> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home. You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet! Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing. Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib? Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff! Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh? Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants— Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll— Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way! You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope. Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out! <doc-sep>The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of thesoporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for thefirst time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazylethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of theinterval. It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strappingthemselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harperwas waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out ofthe hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked bypneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martiancopper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by adozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly highstate of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done withouthis knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients inwheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorialduties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang theexpense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction andproneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trainedoffice staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialitiesof these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them intothe field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Brisklyhe went over to the desk. He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacythat was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with thedesk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of arobot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in thestress of the argument. A nurse! shouted the woman. I want a nurse! A real woman! For whatyou charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I wantone! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do youhear? No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.The clerk flinched visibly. Now, Mrs. Jacobsen, he soothed. You knowthe hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now? Toothily hesmiled at the enraged woman. That's just it! Mrs. Jacobsen glared. The service is too good.I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I wantsomeone to hear what I say! I want to be able to change my mind oncein awhile! Harper snorted. Wants someone she can devil, he diagnosed. Someoneshe can get a kick out of ordering around. With vast contempt hestepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. One moment, sir, begged that harassed individual. Just one moment,please. He turned back to the woman. But she had turned her glare on Harper. You could at least be civilenough to wait your turn! Harper smirked. My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't anormal human trait. Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckonedauthoritatively to the clerk. I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for arest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuingyour—ah—discussion with the lady. The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing wasHarper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper'simplacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from hisforehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about todeposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blowand another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow. This is a helluva joint! roared the voice. Man could rot away to theknees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service! Again his fistbanged the counter. The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and theirate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper. Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable. With apallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of asilent and efficient robot. <doc-sep>The room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clearwindows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views ofthe Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi werebusy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him andhis associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering howto extract them economically and to process them on this more than aridand almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;mere details.... Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went upto the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut withconsomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark bluesky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phasewhile Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slimcigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribneyhad certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung thebell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense ofwell-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw thatthey were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had nofurther opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinatedmovements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypointo his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling himout. Harper's tongue finally functioned. What's all this? he demanded.There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go! He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.Inexorably it pushed him flat. You've got the wrong room! yelled Harp. Let me go! But the hypobegan to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, ashe drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,at that. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>There was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think itout. For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal thatmade him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinkingmud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, hewas sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until hegagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and thenstood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged andexercised him. Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and thephone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for twoweeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. Persecution, that's what it is! he moaned desperately. And he turnedhis back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to lookflesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had becomeaccustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping forhours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such anappetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush theysent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as hecould wake up enough to be. He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,still moaning about his lack of treatments. Nothin' yet, he gloomilyinformed Harp. They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can'tfind any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and theelevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get aman or he's stuck. Stuck! snarled Harp. I'm never stuck! And I'm damned if I'll waitany longer to break out of this—this jail! Listen, Jake. I've beenthinking. Or trying to, with what's left of me. You came in just whenthat assinine clerk was registering me. I'll bet that clerk got rattledand gave me the wrong key. I'll bet you're supposed to have this roomand I'm getting your treatments. Why don't we switch rooms and see whathappens? Say, maybe you're right! Jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. I'llget my clothes. Harp's eyebrows rose. You mean they left you your clothes? Why, sure. You mean they took yours? Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. Leave your things, will you?I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I haveto go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that. Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. Maybeyou could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It'sokay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there inthat fancy lobby. Harper looked at his watch. Time to go. Relax, old man. The robotswill be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'msure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don'tworry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right. Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new roomhe watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor forhis first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake'sclothing. The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father'sclothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head stickingup on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he wasshoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's numbertwelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch fromhis image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.This is room 618, he said authoritatively. Send up the elevator forme. I want to go down to the lobby. He'd guessed right again. It will be right up, sir, responded therobot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled tothe elevator. <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby. He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control. The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths! No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes. Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it! Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate. That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please. This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind. Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began. Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat! Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. My robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things! Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation. Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate. Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly. Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you? Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment. Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced? Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors. With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator. Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot. <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why do the robots not make good hotel staff?

The robots do not make good hotel staff because they are so efficient, they lack any comprehension that humans inherently possess. When Harper first arrives in the hotel, he notices that a woman named Mrs. Jacobsen is giving out about her treatment by the robots. She thinks that the service they provide is too good. She isn't able to change her mind because the robots won't listen, they will just follow orders. They don't listen to Harper when he tries to tell them that he did not book into the hotel for treatment, as they are simply following orders. They don't reason with him when he tries to get out of the treatment, and force him to undergo the procedures. The manager knows that the robots aren't working, and he tells Harper that guest reservations have already declined because of it.

What are the treatments that Harper went through, and what were their effects? [SEP] <s> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home. You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet! Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing. Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib? Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff! Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh? Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants— Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll— Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way! You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope. Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out! <doc-sep>The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of thesoporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for thefirst time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazylethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of theinterval. It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strappingthemselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harperwas waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out ofthe hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked bypneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martiancopper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by adozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly highstate of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done withouthis knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients inwheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorialduties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang theexpense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction andproneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trainedoffice staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialitiesof these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them intothe field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Brisklyhe went over to the desk. He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacythat was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with thedesk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of arobot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in thestress of the argument. A nurse! shouted the woman. I want a nurse! A real woman! For whatyou charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I wantone! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do youhear? No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.The clerk flinched visibly. Now, Mrs. Jacobsen, he soothed. You knowthe hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now? Toothily hesmiled at the enraged woman. That's just it! Mrs. Jacobsen glared. The service is too good.I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I wantsomeone to hear what I say! I want to be able to change my mind oncein awhile! Harper snorted. Wants someone she can devil, he diagnosed. Someoneshe can get a kick out of ordering around. With vast contempt hestepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. One moment, sir, begged that harassed individual. Just one moment,please. He turned back to the woman. But she had turned her glare on Harper. You could at least be civilenough to wait your turn! Harper smirked. My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't anormal human trait. Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckonedauthoritatively to the clerk. I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for arest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuingyour—ah—discussion with the lady. The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing wasHarper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper'simplacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from hisforehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about todeposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blowand another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow. This is a helluva joint! roared the voice. Man could rot away to theknees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service! Again his fistbanged the counter. The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and theirate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper. Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable. With apallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of asilent and efficient robot. <doc-sep>The room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clearwindows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views ofthe Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi werebusy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him andhis associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering howto extract them economically and to process them on this more than aridand almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;mere details.... Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went upto the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut withconsomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark bluesky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phasewhile Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slimcigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribneyhad certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung thebell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense ofwell-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw thatthey were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had nofurther opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinatedmovements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypointo his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling himout. Harper's tongue finally functioned. What's all this? he demanded.There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go! He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.Inexorably it pushed him flat. You've got the wrong room! yelled Harp. Let me go! But the hypobegan to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, ashe drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,at that. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>There was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think itout. For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal thatmade him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinkingmud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, hewas sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until hegagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and thenstood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged andexercised him. Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and thephone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for twoweeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. Persecution, that's what it is! he moaned desperately. And he turnedhis back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to lookflesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had becomeaccustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping forhours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such anappetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush theysent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as hecould wake up enough to be. He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,still moaning about his lack of treatments. Nothin' yet, he gloomilyinformed Harp. They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can'tfind any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and theelevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get aman or he's stuck. Stuck! snarled Harp. I'm never stuck! And I'm damned if I'll waitany longer to break out of this—this jail! Listen, Jake. I've beenthinking. Or trying to, with what's left of me. You came in just whenthat assinine clerk was registering me. I'll bet that clerk got rattledand gave me the wrong key. I'll bet you're supposed to have this roomand I'm getting your treatments. Why don't we switch rooms and see whathappens? Say, maybe you're right! Jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. I'llget my clothes. Harp's eyebrows rose. You mean they left you your clothes? Why, sure. You mean they took yours? Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. Leave your things, will you?I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I haveto go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that. Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. Maybeyou could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It'sokay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there inthat fancy lobby. Harper looked at his watch. Time to go. Relax, old man. The robotswill be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'msure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don'tworry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right. Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new roomhe watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor forhis first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake'sclothing. The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father'sclothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head stickingup on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he wasshoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's numbertwelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch fromhis image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.This is room 618, he said authoritatively. Send up the elevator forme. I want to go down to the lobby. He'd guessed right again. It will be right up, sir, responded therobot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled tothe elevator. <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby. He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control. The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths! No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes. Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it! Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate. That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please. This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind. Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began. Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat! Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. My robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things! Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation. Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate. Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly. Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you? Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment. Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced? Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors. With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator. Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot. <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the treatments that Harper went through, and what were their effects?

Against his will, Harper is subject to a number of treatments at the hotel. He is dunked into mud baths for extensive periods of time. He is held in rancid smelling irradiated hot water. He is made to eat and drink strange concoctions. His stomach is pumped with food. They massage and exercise him. Harper hates all of this. It does do him good though. He notices that his skin which was once yellow, is now returning to a flesh colour. He can finally sleep well again also. When he returns to Earth, he is happy and energised for the first time in years. He looks fitter, and younger than he did before he left.

Why has Ellis booked into the hotel, and what has his experience been like? [SEP] <s> HAGERTY'S ENZYMES By A. L. HALEY There's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried Mars the situation was just a little different. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Harper Breen sank down gingerly into the new Relaxo-Lounge. He placedtwitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. Heclosed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the cornerfrom jumping. Just lie back, Harp, droned his sister soothingly. Just give in andlet go of everything. Harper tried to let go of everything. He gave in to the chair. Andgently the chair went to work. It rocked rhythmically, it vibratedtenderly. With velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. For all of five minutes Harper stood it. Then with a frenzied lungehe escaped the embrace of the Relaxo-Lounge and fled to a gloriouslystationary sofa. Harp! His sister, Bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. Dr.Franz said it would be just the thing for you! Why won't you give it atrial? Harper glared at the preposterous chair. Franz! he snarled. Thatprize fathead! I've paid him a fortune in fees. I haven't slept forweeks. I can't eat anything but soup. My nerves are jangling likea four-alarm fire. And what does he prescribe? A blasted jigglingbaby carriage! Why, I ought to send him the bill for it! Completelyoutraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. Now, Harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. He told youlast year that you'd have to ease up. Why do you have to try to runthe whole world? It's the strain of all your business worries that'scausing your trouble. He told you to take a long vacation or you'dcrack up. Don't blame him for your own stubbornness. Harper snorted. His large nose developed the sound magnificently.Vacation! he snorted. Batting a silly ball around or dragging a hookafter a stupid fish! Fine activities for an intelligent middle-agedman! And let me correct you. It isn't business worries that are drivingme to a crack-up. It's the strain of trying to get some sensible,reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops I have to hire! It's theidiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! It's the— Hey, Harp, old man! His brother-in-law, turning the pages of thenew colorama magazine, INTERPLANETARY, had paused at a double-spread.Didn't you have a finger in those Martian equatorial wells they sunktwenty years ago? Harper's hands twitched violently. Don't mention that fiasco! herasped. That deal nearly cost me my shirt! Water, hell! Those wellsspewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped! <doc-sep>Scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brainwere the complete antithesis of Harper's picked-crow physique andscheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. Harp'snervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interferewith the harmony of his home. You're away behind the times, Harp, he declared. Don't you knowthat those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springsever discovered anywhere? Don't you know that a syndicate has builtthe largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and thatpeople are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? Old man,you missed a bet! Leaping from the sofa, Harper rudely snatched the magazine fromScribney's hands. He glared at the spread which depicted a star-shapedstructure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rockof Mars. The main portion of the building consisted of a circularskyscraper with a glass-domed roof. Between its star-shaped annexes,other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in thedrawing looked lovely and enticing. Why, I remember now! exclaimed Bella. That's where the Durants wenttwo years ago! He was about dead and she looked like a hag. They cameback in wonderful shape. Don't you remember, Scrib? Dutifully Scribney remembered and commented on the change the Martiansprings had effected in the Durants. It's the very thing for you,Harp, he advised. You'd get a good rest on the way out. This gasthey use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort offloats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. Andyou can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. And notonly that. Confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant lookingbrother-in-law. The chemists over at Dade McCann have just isolated anenzyme from one species of Martian fungus that breaks down crude oilinto its components without the need for chemical processing. There's afortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learnsto process the stuff! Scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. Themagazine sagged in Harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd andcalculating. He even forgot to twitch. Maybe you're right, Scrib, heacknowledged. Combine a rest-cure with business, eh? Raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. And thatwas when he saw the line about the robots. —the only hotel staffedentirely with robot servants— Robots! he shrilled. You mean they've developed the things to thatpoint? Why hasn't somebody told me? I'll have Jackson's hide! I'lldisfranchise him! I'll— Harp! exploded Bella. Stop it! Maybe Jackson doesn't know a thingabout it, whatever it is! If it's something at the Emerald Star Hotel,why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing atantrum? That's the only sensible way! You're right, Bella, agreed Harper incisively. I'll go and find outfor myself. Immediately! Scooping up his hat, he left at his usuallope. Well! remarked his sister. All I can say is that they'd better turnthat happy-gas on extra strong for Harp's trip out! <doc-sep>The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of thesoporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for thefirst time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazylethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of theinterval. It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strappingthemselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harperwas waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out ofthe hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked bypneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martiancopper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by adozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly highstate of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done withouthis knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients inwheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorialduties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang theexpense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction andproneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trainedoffice staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialitiesof these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them intothe field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Brisklyhe went over to the desk. He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacythat was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with thedesk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of arobot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in thestress of the argument. A nurse! shouted the woman. I want a nurse! A real woman! For whatyou charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I wantone! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do youhear? No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.The clerk flinched visibly. Now, Mrs. Jacobsen, he soothed. You knowthe hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now? Toothily hesmiled at the enraged woman. That's just it! Mrs. Jacobsen glared. The service is too good.I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I wantsomeone to hear what I say! I want to be able to change my mind oncein awhile! Harper snorted. Wants someone she can devil, he diagnosed. Someoneshe can get a kick out of ordering around. With vast contempt hestepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. One moment, sir, begged that harassed individual. Just one moment,please. He turned back to the woman. But she had turned her glare on Harper. You could at least be civilenough to wait your turn! Harper smirked. My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't anormal human trait. Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckonedauthoritatively to the clerk. I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for arest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuingyour—ah—discussion with the lady. The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing wasHarper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper'simplacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from hisforehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about todeposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blowand another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow. This is a helluva joint! roared the voice. Man could rot away to theknees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service! Again his fistbanged the counter. The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and theirate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper. Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable. With apallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of asilent and efficient robot. <doc-sep>The room was more than comfortable. It was beautiful. Its bank of clearwindows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views ofthe Martian hinterland where, Harper affectionately thought, fungi werebusy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him andhis associates. There remained only the small detail of discovering howto extract them economically and to process them on this more than aridand almost airless planet. Details for his bright young laboratory men;mere details.... Leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went upto the domed roof restaurant. Lunching boldly on broiled halibut withconsomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark bluesky of Mars, with Deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phasewhile Phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule.Leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slimcigar—his first in months—and inhaled happily. For once old Scribneyhad certainly been right, he reflected. Yes sir, Scrib had rung thebell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. With a wonderful sense ofwell-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. Harper opened his eyes. Two robots were bending over him. He saw thatthey were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. But he had nofurther opportunity to examine them. With brisk, well-co-ordinatedmovements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypointo his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling himout. Harper's tongue finally functioned. What's all this? he demanded.There's nothing wrong with me. Let me go! He struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest.Inexorably it pushed him flat. You've got the wrong room! yelled Harp. Let me go! But the hypobegan to take effect. His yells became weaker and drowsier. Hazily, ashe drifted off, he thought of Mrs. Jacobsen. Maybe she had something,at that. <doc-sep>There was a tentative knock on the door. Come in, called Harperbleakly. As soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, forthe opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on thedesk demanding service while he, Harp, was being registered. Say, pardner, he said hoarsely, you haven't seen any of them robotsaround here, have you? Harper scowled. Oh, haven't I? he grated. Robots! Do you know whatthey did to me. Indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. Came in herewhile I was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal I've enjoyedin months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! Theonly meal I've enjoyed in months! Blackly he sank his chin onto hisfist and contemplated the outrage. Why didn't you stop 'em? reasonably asked the visitor. Stop a robot? Harper glared pityingly. How? You can't reason withthe blasted things. And as for using force—it's man against metal. Youtry it! He ground his teeth together in futile rage. And to think Ihad the insane notion that robots were the last word! Why, I was readyto staff my offices with the things! The big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach andgroaned. I'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. I could usesome of that treatment right now. Musta been that steak and onions Iate after all that tundra dope I've been livin' on. Tundra? A faint spark of alertness lightened Harper's dull rage. Youmean you work out here on the tundra? That's right. How'd you think I got in such a helluva shape? I'msuperintendent of one of the fungus plants. I'm Jake Ellis of Hagerty'sEnzymes. There's good money in it, but man, what a job! No air worthmentionin'. Temperature always freezin' or below. Pressure suits. Huts.Factory. Processed food. Nothin' else. Just nothin'. That's where theycould use some robots. It sure ain't no job for a real live man. And infact, there ain't many men left there. If old man Hagerty only knew it,he's about out of business. Harper sat up as if he'd been needled. He opened his mouth to speak.But just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. With ahorrified stare, Harper clutched his maltreated stomach. He saw a thirdrobot enter, wheeling a chair. A wheel chair! squeaked the victim. I tell you, there's nothingwrong with me! Take it away! I'm only here for a rest-cure! Believe me!Take it away! The robots ignored him. For the first time in his spectacular andruthless career Harper was up against creatures that he could neitherbribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. It shattered hisebbing self-confidence. He began waving his hands helplessly. The robots not only ignored Harper. They paid no attention at all toJake Ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, Takeme, boys. I need the treatment bad, whatever it is. I need all thetreatment I can get. Take me! I'm just a wreck, fellers— Stolidly they picked Harper up, plunked him into the chair, strappedhim down and marched out with him. Dejectedly Ellis returned to his own room. Again he lifted the receiverof the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly,mechanically, and meaninglessly. He hung up and went miserably to bed. <doc-sep>There was something nagging at Harper's mind. Something he should do.Something that concerned robots. But he was too exhausted to think itout. For five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal thatmade him flinch every time he thought about it. Which wasn't often,since he was almost past thinking. They plunked him into stinkingmud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, hewas sure. They soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until hegagged. They brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and thenstood over him until he consumed them. They purged and massaged andexercised him. Whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept.There was nothing else to do anyway. They'd taken his clothes; and thephone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for twoweeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. Persecution, that's what it is! he moaned desperately. And he turnedhis back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to lookflesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had becomeaccustomed. He closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping forhours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such anappetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush theysent him for breakfast. He was determined to be furious. As soon as hecould wake up enough to be. He hadn't been awake long this time before Jake Ellis was there again,still moaning about his lack of treatments. Nothin' yet, he gloomilyinformed Harp. They haven't been near me. I just can't understand it.After I signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! And I can'tfind any way out of this section. The other two rooms are empty and theelevator hasn't got any button. The robots just have to come and get aman or he's stuck. Stuck! snarled Harp. I'm never stuck! And I'm damned if I'll waitany longer to break out of this—this jail! Listen, Jake. I've beenthinking. Or trying to, with what's left of me. You came in just whenthat assinine clerk was registering me. I'll bet that clerk got rattledand gave me the wrong key. I'll bet you're supposed to have this roomand I'm getting your treatments. Why don't we switch rooms and see whathappens? Say, maybe you're right! Jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. I'llget my clothes. Harp's eyebrows rose. You mean they left you your clothes? Why, sure. You mean they took yours? Harp nodded. An idea began to formulate. Leave your things, will you?I'm desperate! I'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if I haveto go down dressed in a sheet. Your clothes would be better than that. Jake, looking over Harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. Maybeyou could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. And roll up the cuffs. It'sokay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there inthat fancy lobby. Harper looked at his watch. Time to go. Relax, old man. The robotswill be along any minute now. If you're the only man in the room, I'msure they'll take you. They aren't equipped to figure it out. And don'tworry about me. I'll anchor your duds all right. Harper had guessed right. Gleefully from the doorway of his new roomhe watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor forhis first treatment. Then he closed the door and began to don Jake'sclothing. The result was unique. He looked like a small boy in his father'sclothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head stickingup on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. And he wasshoeless. He was completely unable to navigate in Jake's numbertwelves. But Harper was a determined man. He didn't even flinch fromhis image in the mirror. Firmly he stepped over to Jake's telephone.This is room 618, he said authoritatively. Send up the elevator forme. I want to go down to the lobby. He'd guessed right again. It will be right up, sir, responded therobot operator. Hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled tothe elevator. <doc-sep>Only the robots were immune to Harper Breen's progress across the hugesuave lobby. He was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted theother visitors into paralyzed staring groups. Stepping out of theelevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an islandin a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring theoversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. Only the robotsshared his self control. The clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor.Frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard.With a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines movinginexorably forward. He pointed to Harper. Get that patient! heordered. Take him to the—to the mud-baths! No you don't! yelled Harper. I want to see the manager! Nimbly hecircled the guard and leaped behind the desk. He began to throw thingsat the robots. Things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes.Especially, card indexes. Stop it! begged the clerk. You'll wreck the system! We'll never getit straight again! Stop it! Call them off! snarled Harper. Call them off or I'll ruin yourswitchboard! He put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. With one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up anelectric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. They becameoddly inanimate. That's better! Harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed thecollar of his flapping coat. Now—the manager, please. This—this way, sir. With shrinking steps the clerk led Harper acrossthe width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. He was beyondspeech. Opening the inconspicuous door, he waved Harper inside andreturned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and atthe same time phrase his resignation in his mind. Brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, Harperflapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. The manager, whowas busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metaldesk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. My goodman— he began. Don't 'my-good-man' me! snapped Harper. He glared back at themanager. Reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he couldstretch, he shook his puny fist. Do you know who I am? I'm HarperS. Breen, of Breen and Helgart, Incorporated! And do you know why Ihaven't even a card to prove it? Do you know why I have to make my waydownstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? Do you know why?Because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and thosedamnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! Me,Harper S. Breen! Why, I'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have asheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat! Hayes, the manager, blanched. Then he began to mottle in an apoplecticpattern. And suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair.With a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. My robots! he muttered.As if I invented the damned things! Despondently he looked at Harper. Go ahead and sue, Mr. Breen. If youdon't, somebody else will. And if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway,at the rate our guest list is declining. I'm ready to hand in myresignation. Again he sighed. The trouble, he explained, is that those foolrobots are completely logical, and people aren't. There's no way to mixthe two. It's dynamite. Maybe people can gradually learn to live withrobots, but they haven't yet. Only we had to find it out the hard way.We— he grimaced disgustedly—had to pioneer in the use of robots.And it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help.So—Operation Robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate. Listening, an amazing calm settled on Harper. Thoughtfully now hehooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down andreached for the cigar that Hayes automatically offered him. Oh, Idon't know, he said mildly. Hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. Whatdo you mean, you don't know? You're threatening to take our shirts,aren't you? Meticulously Harper clipped and lit his cigar. It seems to me thatthese robots might be useful in quite another capacity. I might evenmake a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands—at areasonable price, of course—and forget the outrages I've suffered atyour establishment. Hayes leaned toward him incredulous. You mean you want these robotsafter what you've seen and experienced? Placidly Harper puffed a smoke ring. Of course, you'd have to takeinto consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. Andthere's the suit I'm clearly justified in instituting. However, I'mwilling to discuss the matter with your superiors. With hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, Hayes lifted hishead. My dear Mr. Breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, I'llback you to the hilt! I'll notify the owners at once. At once, Mr.Breen! And while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest ofthe hotel. Coming around to Harper, he effusively shook Harp's scrawnyhand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door butacross the lobby to the elevator. Harper gazed out at the stunned audience. This was more like thetreatment he was accustomed to! Haughtily he squared his bony shouldersinside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. He was readyfor the second step of his private Operation Robot. <doc-sep>Back on Earth it was a warm, misty spring day—the kind of day unknownto the planet Mars. Bella and Scribney, superb in new spring outfits,waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recoveredfrom deceleration. Look, Scrib! Bella clutched Scribney's substantial arm. It's finallyopening. They watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. Theywatched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. There he is! cried Bella. Why, doesn't he look wonderful! Scrib,it's amazing! Look at him! And indeed, Harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fitand years younger. He came across to them actually beaming. It was thefirst pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. Well, you old dog! exclaimed Scribney affectionately. So you did itagain! Harper smirked. Yep, I turned a neat little deal. I bought outHagerty's Enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. Gotboth of 'em dirt cheap. Both concerns going bankrupt because theydidn't have sense enough to swap their workers. Feel I owe you a bitfor that tip about enzymes, Scrib, so I made out a block of stock toyou. All right? All right? Scribney gulped. Why, the dried-up little turnip was humanafter all. All right! Yes, sir! But aren't you going to use some ofthose robots for office help? Aren't they efficient and all that? Harper's smile vanished. Don't even mention such a thing! he yelped.You don't know what you're saying! I lived with those things forweeks. I wouldn't have one around! Keep 'em in the factory where theybelong! He glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary,waiting patiently in the background. Oh there you are, Smythe. Heturned to his relatives. Busy day ahead. See you later, folks— Same old Harp, observed Scribney. Then he thought of the block ofstock. What say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate,honey? Wonderful! She squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they leftthe port. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why has Ellis booked into the hotel, and what has his experience been like?

Jake Ellis is a man who works on the tundra, as one of the superintendents of the fungus plants. He booked into the hotel as his health has been on a decline because of his working conditions. The temperature in the factories are usually below freezing, he has to wear a pressure suit, the air quality is terrible and he has to live on processed food. He hoped to get treatment at the hotel, but since his arrival, he has been practically ignored by the staff, and left in his room. This is because the clerk switched his room key with Ellis'. When he meets Ellis and they decide to switch rooms, he finally gets his first treatment.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw. No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You— Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive. Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt. After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them. Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart! I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now— Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime. Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized. I hate Terrestrials , Skkiru said to himself. I hate Terra. Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation. Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner! And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>Bbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, alreadygilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He lookedpretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of hisown appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delightromantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the mosthardened sadist. Hurry up, Skkiru, Bbulas said. They mustn't suspect the existence ofthe city underground or we're finished before we've started. For my part, I wish we'd never started, Skkiru grumbled. What waswrong with our old culture, anyway? That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered itanyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetratehis mind that school-days were long since over. I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much likethe Terrans' own to be of interest to them, he said, with affectedweariness. After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from theother—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're prettychoosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what theywant. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to lookhungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra. For Snaddra, Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heartin a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemedto indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certainessential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath thanin the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrialinfluence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had beensuch a nice girl, too. We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru, she told him, with along, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quiveringtoes, but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—andI hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation withBbulas. If that doesn't, Bbulas said, I have other methods of inspiration. All right, Skkiru answered sulkily. I'll go to the edge of thefield, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normalhabits and customs, and I'll even beg . But I don't have to like doingit, and I don't intend to like doing it. All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. I'm proud of you,Skkiru, she said brokenly. Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in atriple silence. <doc-sep>Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, Skkiru chanted, as the two Terransdescended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet aprocession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as lessinspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, justin case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired asmattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed tonavigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible. Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, chanted Skkiru the beggar.His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had beencustom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—andthe wind and the rain were joyously making their way through thedemolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of theplanet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only whentaking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars andself-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficientlyprimitive. The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularlyin the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetterseason. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandalsworn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them muchgood, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that theprivileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though theircostumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the caseof the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to behumanoid. As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had oncegotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and hadalways planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—theweather had always been so weathery, there were so many other morecomfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisurehours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, whichhe'd salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was thematter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way,and get it. Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver inhis toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of landtransport? And even though it took time to get the things, they workedso well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at theEarth ship long before the official greeters had reached it. <doc-sep>The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarlypasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennaedistinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed muchas the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb. In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehowexpected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he hadfrequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily thosecould be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he hadalways understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus provingbeyond a doubt that they had something to hide. Look, Raoul, the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—whichthe Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed tounderstand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionablethird language on most of the outer planets. A beggar. Haven't seenone since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work onthat little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get morethan a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough toamass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives triedto eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry. Oh, they were cannibals? the other Earthman asked, so respectfullythat it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. Howhorrible! No, not at all, the other assured him. They weren't human—anotherspecies entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, itwas quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moralconsiderations seemed less important to us than self-preservationjust then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let themissionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know. And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril? They softened up the missionaries, I believe. Cyril laughed. Ah,well, it's all in the day's work. I hope these creatures are not man-eaters, Raoul commented, witha polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncomingprocession— creatures indeed ! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it wouldbe indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especiallysince this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it. Oh, you will, my boy, you will. Cyril clapped the younger man on theshoulder. I have every confidence in your ability. Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite ofBbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—whichhad always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligentlife-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; itwasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite. The natives certainly appear to be human enough, Raoul added, withan appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for theprocessional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. Someslight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, threeeyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been myfavorite color. If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turnbright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normalhealthy emerald to a sickly celadon. <doc-sep>Cyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortionof his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere. Maybe thelittle one's a robot! However, it couldn't be—a robot would be betterconstructed and less interested in females than Raoul. Remember, Cyril said sternly, we must not establish undue rapportwith the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity. Yes, Cyril, Raoul said meekly. Cyril assumed a more cheerful aspect I should like to give this chapsomething for old times' sake. What do you suppose is the medium ofexchange here? Money , Skkiru said to himself, but he didn't dare contribute thispiece of information, helpful though it would be. How should I know? Raoul shrugged. Empathize. Get in there, old chap, and start batting. Why not give him a bar of chocolate, then? Raoul suggested grumpily.The language of the stomach, like the language of love, is said to bea universal one. Splendid idea! I always knew you had it in you, Raoul! Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmursof gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of theplanet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolatewere to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the giftto contribute it later to the Treasury, the high priest was off hisrocker. To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body'sresistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so muchweather all at once. On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, theyoften sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problemof birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, neededno such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—wasdwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on thechocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own thanto descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

qds-lb-writing-099be7bcf434f75d.elb.us-east-2.amazonaws.com/?uid=fbb302599a4a417fbc34eb1b65558c19The Ignoble Savages by Evelyn E. Smith details the tale of a race on the brink of extinction and their strange attempt to save themselves. Snaddra is a rainy planet with a mud surface. Due to the harsh weather, the Snaddrath chose to build their cities underground. Their civilized culture allowed for excellence in the metal industry and architecture, however, their isolation caused for poor education and expensive trade deals. In the face of crisis, the Bbulas Plan emerged, a plot to move their capital aboveground to convince visiting Terrans of their primitive nature and need for help. It begins with Skirru, an architect-turned-beggar, arguing with his former fiance, Larhgan, who is now the High Priestess. Their new jobs forbid marriage between the two, so Larhgan returns his grimpatch with regret. Bbulas, the new High Priest, watches gleefully, as he was in love with Larhgan all along. After much fighting, they levitate to the surface of the planet and wait for the Terrans to arrive. Now covered with huts, the new caste system emerges. Skirru is upset about his current position and feels ill. The woven metal clothes he was given to wear did not shield him from the light, so his green skin starts fading to yellow. The Terrans arrive, Raoul and Cyril, to analyze the planet. Skirru begs in front of them, and they give him a chocolate bar, a delicacy on Snaddra. He eats it quickly, grateful for the treat as it restores health to sick Snaddrath. He remembers a pair of shoes he once got and dashes belowground to get them, returning with booted feet. Able to walk easier now, he follows the Terrans to the temple, where Bbulas and Larhgan are waiting. Raoul eyes the female Snaddrath hungrily. Cyril reminds him that they are there to investigate, not fraternize with the natives. Once there, Larhgan welcomes them with a long speech Bbulas wrote. Bbulas invites the Terrans to a rain dance, which they laugh at seeing as the planet is covered in mud. Bbulas recovers quickly and claims it’s a ceremony to stop the rain. Already, his plot to save his planet is falling apart. Raoul quickly notices that the beggar, Skkiru, is wearing mudshoes, which makes no sense. Bbulas changes the subject and points them towards their hut, evidently the nicest one on Snaddra. He runs to Skkiru and angrily confronts him about his footwear.

What are the Terrans doing on Snaddra? What is the significance of their visit? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw. No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You— Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive. Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt. After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them. Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart! I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now— Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime. Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized. I hate Terrestrials , Skkiru said to himself. I hate Terra. Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation. Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner! And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>Bbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, alreadygilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He lookedpretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of hisown appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delightromantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the mosthardened sadist. Hurry up, Skkiru, Bbulas said. They mustn't suspect the existence ofthe city underground or we're finished before we've started. For my part, I wish we'd never started, Skkiru grumbled. What waswrong with our old culture, anyway? That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered itanyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetratehis mind that school-days were long since over. I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much likethe Terrans' own to be of interest to them, he said, with affectedweariness. After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from theother—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're prettychoosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what theywant. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to lookhungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra. For Snaddra, Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heartin a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemedto indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certainessential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath thanin the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrialinfluence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had beensuch a nice girl, too. We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru, she told him, with along, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quiveringtoes, but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—andI hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation withBbulas. If that doesn't, Bbulas said, I have other methods of inspiration. All right, Skkiru answered sulkily. I'll go to the edge of thefield, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normalhabits and customs, and I'll even beg . But I don't have to like doingit, and I don't intend to like doing it. All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. I'm proud of you,Skkiru, she said brokenly. Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in atriple silence. <doc-sep>Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, Skkiru chanted, as the two Terransdescended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet aprocession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as lessinspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, justin case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired asmattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed tonavigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible. Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, chanted Skkiru the beggar.His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had beencustom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—andthe wind and the rain were joyously making their way through thedemolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of theplanet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only whentaking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars andself-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficientlyprimitive. The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularlyin the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetterseason. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandalsworn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them muchgood, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that theprivileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though theircostumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the caseof the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to behumanoid. As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had oncegotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and hadalways planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—theweather had always been so weathery, there were so many other morecomfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisurehours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, whichhe'd salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was thematter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way,and get it. Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver inhis toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of landtransport? And even though it took time to get the things, they workedso well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at theEarth ship long before the official greeters had reached it. <doc-sep>The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarlypasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennaedistinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed muchas the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb. In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehowexpected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he hadfrequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily thosecould be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he hadalways understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus provingbeyond a doubt that they had something to hide. Look, Raoul, the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—whichthe Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed tounderstand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionablethird language on most of the outer planets. A beggar. Haven't seenone since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work onthat little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get morethan a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough toamass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives triedto eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry. Oh, they were cannibals? the other Earthman asked, so respectfullythat it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. Howhorrible! No, not at all, the other assured him. They weren't human—anotherspecies entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, itwas quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moralconsiderations seemed less important to us than self-preservationjust then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let themissionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know. And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril? They softened up the missionaries, I believe. Cyril laughed. Ah,well, it's all in the day's work. I hope these creatures are not man-eaters, Raoul commented, witha polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncomingprocession— creatures indeed ! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it wouldbe indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especiallysince this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it. Oh, you will, my boy, you will. Cyril clapped the younger man on theshoulder. I have every confidence in your ability. Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite ofBbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—whichhad always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligentlife-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; itwasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite. The natives certainly appear to be human enough, Raoul added, withan appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for theprocessional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. Someslight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, threeeyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been myfavorite color. If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turnbright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normalhealthy emerald to a sickly celadon. <doc-sep>Cyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortionof his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere. Maybe thelittle one's a robot! However, it couldn't be—a robot would be betterconstructed and less interested in females than Raoul. Remember, Cyril said sternly, we must not establish undue rapportwith the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity. Yes, Cyril, Raoul said meekly. Cyril assumed a more cheerful aspect I should like to give this chapsomething for old times' sake. What do you suppose is the medium ofexchange here? Money , Skkiru said to himself, but he didn't dare contribute thispiece of information, helpful though it would be. How should I know? Raoul shrugged. Empathize. Get in there, old chap, and start batting. Why not give him a bar of chocolate, then? Raoul suggested grumpily.The language of the stomach, like the language of love, is said to bea universal one. Splendid idea! I always knew you had it in you, Raoul! Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmursof gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of theplanet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolatewere to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the giftto contribute it later to the Treasury, the high priest was off hisrocker. To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body'sresistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so muchweather all at once. On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, theyoften sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problemof birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, neededno such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—wasdwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on thechocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own thanto descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the Terrans doing on Snaddra? What is the significance of their visit?

The visiting Terrans, Cyril and Raoul, are visiting Snaddra to survey and analyze the native culture. Evidently, Terrans do this on planets across the universe, immersing themselves in the culture only to leave however many days, months, or years later with a full-fledged report. Their visit is significant because it may give the Snaddrath a chance to revitalize their economy and people. Due to their current lack of resources, muddy surface, and planetary isolation, the Snaddrath are facing extinction. They hope that by presenting themselves as a primitive civilization, the Terrans will be more inclined to establish trade with them and give them an economic boost.

Describe the natives of Snaddra. [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw. No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You— Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive. Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt. After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them. Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart! I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now— Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime. Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized. I hate Terrestrials , Skkiru said to himself. I hate Terra. Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation. Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner! And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>Bbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, alreadygilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He lookedpretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of hisown appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delightromantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the mosthardened sadist. Hurry up, Skkiru, Bbulas said. They mustn't suspect the existence ofthe city underground or we're finished before we've started. For my part, I wish we'd never started, Skkiru grumbled. What waswrong with our old culture, anyway? That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered itanyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetratehis mind that school-days were long since over. I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much likethe Terrans' own to be of interest to them, he said, with affectedweariness. After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from theother—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're prettychoosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what theywant. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to lookhungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra. For Snaddra, Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heartin a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemedto indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certainessential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath thanin the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrialinfluence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had beensuch a nice girl, too. We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru, she told him, with along, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quiveringtoes, but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—andI hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation withBbulas. If that doesn't, Bbulas said, I have other methods of inspiration. All right, Skkiru answered sulkily. I'll go to the edge of thefield, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normalhabits and customs, and I'll even beg . But I don't have to like doingit, and I don't intend to like doing it. All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. I'm proud of you,Skkiru, she said brokenly. Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in atriple silence. <doc-sep>Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, Skkiru chanted, as the two Terransdescended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet aprocession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as lessinspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, justin case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired asmattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed tonavigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible. Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, chanted Skkiru the beggar.His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had beencustom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—andthe wind and the rain were joyously making their way through thedemolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of theplanet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only whentaking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars andself-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficientlyprimitive. The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularlyin the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetterseason. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandalsworn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them muchgood, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that theprivileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though theircostumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the caseof the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to behumanoid. As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had oncegotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and hadalways planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—theweather had always been so weathery, there were so many other morecomfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisurehours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, whichhe'd salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was thematter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way,and get it. Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver inhis toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of landtransport? And even though it took time to get the things, they workedso well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at theEarth ship long before the official greeters had reached it. <doc-sep>The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarlypasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennaedistinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed muchas the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb. In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehowexpected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he hadfrequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily thosecould be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he hadalways understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus provingbeyond a doubt that they had something to hide. Look, Raoul, the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—whichthe Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed tounderstand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionablethird language on most of the outer planets. A beggar. Haven't seenone since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work onthat little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get morethan a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough toamass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives triedto eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry. Oh, they were cannibals? the other Earthman asked, so respectfullythat it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. Howhorrible! No, not at all, the other assured him. They weren't human—anotherspecies entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, itwas quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moralconsiderations seemed less important to us than self-preservationjust then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let themissionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know. And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril? They softened up the missionaries, I believe. Cyril laughed. Ah,well, it's all in the day's work. I hope these creatures are not man-eaters, Raoul commented, witha polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncomingprocession— creatures indeed ! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it wouldbe indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especiallysince this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it. Oh, you will, my boy, you will. Cyril clapped the younger man on theshoulder. I have every confidence in your ability. Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite ofBbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—whichhad always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligentlife-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; itwasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite. The natives certainly appear to be human enough, Raoul added, withan appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for theprocessional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. Someslight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, threeeyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been myfavorite color. If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turnbright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normalhealthy emerald to a sickly celadon. <doc-sep>Cyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortionof his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere. Maybe thelittle one's a robot! However, it couldn't be—a robot would be betterconstructed and less interested in females than Raoul. Remember, Cyril said sternly, we must not establish undue rapportwith the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity. Yes, Cyril, Raoul said meekly. Cyril assumed a more cheerful aspect I should like to give this chapsomething for old times' sake. What do you suppose is the medium ofexchange here? Money , Skkiru said to himself, but he didn't dare contribute thispiece of information, helpful though it would be. How should I know? Raoul shrugged. Empathize. Get in there, old chap, and start batting. Why not give him a bar of chocolate, then? Raoul suggested grumpily.The language of the stomach, like the language of love, is said to bea universal one. Splendid idea! I always knew you had it in you, Raoul! Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmursof gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of theplanet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolatewere to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the giftto contribute it later to the Treasury, the high priest was off hisrocker. To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body'sresistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so muchweather all at once. On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, theyoften sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problemof birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, neededno such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—wasdwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on thechocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own thanto descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the natives of Snaddra.

The natives of Snaddra are a very civilized race, progressing beyond what life on Earth is like now. They live underground, due to the terrible weather on the surface of the planet, and have built extensive cities and tunnels. They designed flying cars to use on the surface, and they have the capability to levitate. Their outward appearance is somewhat humanoid, though there are some very distinct and different features. For one, the natives have antennae, as well as green skin. When healthy, their skin is a beautiful emerald green color, but if they grow ill it will become more yellow. The Snaddrath also have three eyes, requiring spectacles to have three individual lenses. When upset, anxious, or provoked, they have a tendency to twirl mid-air. If a Snaddrath falls in love with another, they give their lover their grimpatch, a beautiful bauble, to indicate their dedication. Many Snaddrath work in the metal industry since some of the few resources left on the planet are minerals.

Describe the setting of the story, Snaddra. [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw. No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You— Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive. Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt. After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them. Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart! I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now— Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime. Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized. I hate Terrestrials , Skkiru said to himself. I hate Terra. Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation. Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner! And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>Bbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, alreadygilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He lookedpretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of hisown appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delightromantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the mosthardened sadist. Hurry up, Skkiru, Bbulas said. They mustn't suspect the existence ofthe city underground or we're finished before we've started. For my part, I wish we'd never started, Skkiru grumbled. What waswrong with our old culture, anyway? That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered itanyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetratehis mind that school-days were long since over. I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much likethe Terrans' own to be of interest to them, he said, with affectedweariness. After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from theother—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're prettychoosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what theywant. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to lookhungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra. For Snaddra, Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heartin a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemedto indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certainessential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath thanin the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrialinfluence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had beensuch a nice girl, too. We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru, she told him, with along, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quiveringtoes, but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—andI hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation withBbulas. If that doesn't, Bbulas said, I have other methods of inspiration. All right, Skkiru answered sulkily. I'll go to the edge of thefield, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normalhabits and customs, and I'll even beg . But I don't have to like doingit, and I don't intend to like doing it. All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. I'm proud of you,Skkiru, she said brokenly. Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in atriple silence. <doc-sep>Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, Skkiru chanted, as the two Terransdescended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet aprocession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as lessinspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, justin case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired asmattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed tonavigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible. Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, chanted Skkiru the beggar.His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had beencustom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—andthe wind and the rain were joyously making their way through thedemolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of theplanet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only whentaking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars andself-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficientlyprimitive. The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularlyin the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetterseason. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandalsworn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them muchgood, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that theprivileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though theircostumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the caseof the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to behumanoid. As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had oncegotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and hadalways planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—theweather had always been so weathery, there were so many other morecomfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisurehours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, whichhe'd salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was thematter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way,and get it. Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver inhis toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of landtransport? And even though it took time to get the things, they workedso well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at theEarth ship long before the official greeters had reached it. <doc-sep>The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarlypasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennaedistinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed muchas the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb. In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehowexpected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he hadfrequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily thosecould be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he hadalways understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus provingbeyond a doubt that they had something to hide. Look, Raoul, the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—whichthe Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed tounderstand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionablethird language on most of the outer planets. A beggar. Haven't seenone since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work onthat little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get morethan a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough toamass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives triedto eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry. Oh, they were cannibals? the other Earthman asked, so respectfullythat it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. Howhorrible! No, not at all, the other assured him. They weren't human—anotherspecies entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, itwas quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moralconsiderations seemed less important to us than self-preservationjust then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let themissionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know. And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril? They softened up the missionaries, I believe. Cyril laughed. Ah,well, it's all in the day's work. I hope these creatures are not man-eaters, Raoul commented, witha polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncomingprocession— creatures indeed ! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it wouldbe indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especiallysince this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it. Oh, you will, my boy, you will. Cyril clapped the younger man on theshoulder. I have every confidence in your ability. Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite ofBbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—whichhad always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligentlife-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; itwasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite. The natives certainly appear to be human enough, Raoul added, withan appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for theprocessional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. Someslight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, threeeyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been myfavorite color. If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turnbright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normalhealthy emerald to a sickly celadon. <doc-sep>Cyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortionof his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere. Maybe thelittle one's a robot! However, it couldn't be—a robot would be betterconstructed and less interested in females than Raoul. Remember, Cyril said sternly, we must not establish undue rapportwith the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity. Yes, Cyril, Raoul said meekly. Cyril assumed a more cheerful aspect I should like to give this chapsomething for old times' sake. What do you suppose is the medium ofexchange here? Money , Skkiru said to himself, but he didn't dare contribute thispiece of information, helpful though it would be. How should I know? Raoul shrugged. Empathize. Get in there, old chap, and start batting. Why not give him a bar of chocolate, then? Raoul suggested grumpily.The language of the stomach, like the language of love, is said to bea universal one. Splendid idea! I always knew you had it in you, Raoul! Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmursof gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of theplanet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolatewere to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the giftto contribute it later to the Treasury, the high priest was off hisrocker. To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body'sresistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so muchweather all at once. On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, theyoften sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problemof birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, neededno such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—wasdwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on thechocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own thanto descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story, Snaddra.

Snaddra is a planet leagues away from many other solar systems. Its isolation and general lack of resources has left the planet as a whole in a terrible situation. Snaddra has two seasons: wet and wetter season. Raining practically every day, the surface of the planet is covered in mud. Because of the muddy surface and difficult weather, the Snaddrath have built cities underground and truly thrived there. Skkiru, one of the main characters, is an architect, and supposedly helped to build underground buildings and cities. Their futuristic lifestyle is threatened, however, by a lack of resources. The only crop that can grow on Snaddra is rice, brought in by Terrans, and much of the native animals and fish are dying out. The one commodity and resource left is minerals. However, the constant importation of foreign goods depleted their economy, leaving the Snaddrath between a rock and a hard place. Bbulas, the Planetary Dilettante, developed the Bbulas Plan to save Snaddra from ruin. He designed a whole aboveground world, new garbs for citizens, as well as an entirely new culture. He believes, as does most of Snaddra, that a primitive culture will draw Terrans in more than an equally advanced and civilized one. So, the story mostly takes place on the surface of Snaddra, now covered in huts.

Who is Bbulas, and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>She had been seeing too many of the Terrestrial fictapes from thelibrary, Skkiru thought resentfully. There was too damn much Terraninfluence on this planet. And this new project was the last straw. No longer able to control his rage and grief, he turned a triplesomersault in the air with rage. Then why was I made a beggar and shethe high priestess? You arranged that purposely, Bbulas. You— Now, Skkiru, Bbulas said wearily, for they had been through all thisbefore, you know that all the ranks and positions were distributedby impartial lot, except for mine, and, of course, such jobs as couldcarry over from the civilized into the primitive. Bbulas breathed on the spectacles he was wearing, as contact lenseswere not considered backward enough for the kind of planet Snaddrawas now supposed to be, and attempted to wipe them dry on his robe.However, the thick, jewel-studded embroidery got in his way and so hewas forced to lift the robe and wipe all three of the lenses on thesmooth, soft, spun metal of his top underskirt. After all, he went on speaking as he wiped, I have to be highpriest, since I organized this culture and am the only one herequalified to administer it. And, as the president himself concurred inthese arrangements, I hardly think you—a mere private citizen—havethe right to question them. Just because you went to school in another solar system, Skkiru said,whirling with anger, you think you're so smart! I won't deny that I do have educational and cultural advantageswhich were, unfortunately, not available to the general populace ofthis planet. However, even under the old system, I was always glad toutilize my superior attainments as Official Dilettante for the good ofall and now— Sure, glad to have a chance to rig this whole setup so you could breakup things between Larhgan and me. You've had your eye on her for sometime. Skkiru coiled his antennae at Bbulas, hoping the insult would provokehim into an unbecoming whirl, but the Dilettante remained calm. One ofthe chief outward signs of Terran-type training was self-control andBbulas had been thoroughly terranized. I hate Terrestrials , Skkiru said to himself. I hate Terra. Thequiver of anxiety had risen up his leg and was coiling and uncoilingin his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't reach his antennae—if he wereto break down and psonk in front of Larhgan, it would be the finalhumiliation. Skkiru! the girl exclaimed, rotating gently, for she, like herfiance—her erstwhile fiance, that was, for the new regime had causedall such ties to be severed—and every other literate person on theplanet, had received her education at the local university. Althoughsound, the school was admittedly provincial in outlook and very poorin the emotional department. One would almost think that the lots hadsome sort of divine intelligence behind them, because you certainly arebehaving in a beggarly manner! And I have already explained to you, Skkiru, Bbulas said, with apatience much more infuriating than the girl's anger, that I had noidea of who was to become my high priestess. The lots chose Larhgan. Itis, as the Earthmen say, kismet. <doc-sep>He adjusted the fall of his glittering robe before the great polishedfour-dimensional reflector that formed one wall of the chamber. Kismet , Skkiru muttered to himself, and a little sleight of hand. But he didn't dare offer this conclusion aloud; the libel laws ofSnaddra were very severe. So he had to fall back on a weak, And Isuppose it is kismet that makes us all have to go live out on theground during the day, like—like savages. It is necessary, Bbulas replied without turning. Pooh, Skkiru said. Pooh, pooh , POOH! Larhgan's dainty earflaps closed. Skkiru! Such language! As you said, Bbulas murmured, contemptuously coiling one antenna atSkkiru, the lots chose well and if you touch me, Skkiru, we shall haveanother drawing for beggar and you will be made a metal-worker. But I can't work metal! Then that will make it much worse for you than for the otheroutcasts, Bbulas said smugly, because you will be a pariah without atrade. Speaking of pariahs, that reminds me, Skkiru, before I forget, I'dbetter give you back your grimpatch— Larhgan handed the glitteringbauble to him—and you give me mine. Since we can't be betrothed anylonger, you might want to give yours to some nice beggar girl. I don't want to give my grimpatch to some nice beggar girl! Skkiruyelled, twirling madly in the air. As for me, she sighed, standing soulfully on her head, I do notthink I shall ever marry. I shall make the religious life my career.Are there going to be any saints in your mythos, Bbulas? Even if there will be, Bbulas said, you certainly won't qualify ifyou keep putting yourself into a position which not only represents atrait wholly out of keeping with the new culture, but is most unseemlywith the high priestess's robes. Larhgan ignored his unfeeling observations. I shall set myself apartfrom mundane affairs, she vowed, and I shall pretend to be happy,even though my heart will be breaking. It was only at that moment that Skkiru realized just how outrageous thewhole thing really was. There must be another solution to the planet'sproblem. Listen— he began, but just then excited noises filtereddown from overhead. It was too late. Earth ship in view! a squeaky voice called through the intercom.Everybody topside and don't forget your shoes. Except the beggar. Beggars went barefoot. Beggars suffered. Bbulas hadmade him beggar purposely, and the lots were a lot of slibwash. Hurry up, Skkiru. <doc-sep>Bbulas slid the ornate headdress over his antennae, which, alreadygilded and jeweled, at once seemed to become a part of it. He lookedpretty damn silly, Skkiru thought, at the same time conscious of hisown appearance—which was, although picturesque enough to delightromantic Terrestrial hearts, sufficiently wretched to charm the mosthardened sadist. Hurry up, Skkiru, Bbulas said. They mustn't suspect the existence ofthe city underground or we're finished before we've started. For my part, I wish we'd never started, Skkiru grumbled. What waswrong with our old culture, anyway? That was intended as a rhetorical question, but Bbulas answered itanyway. He always answered questions; it had never seemed to penetratehis mind that school-days were long since over. I've told you a thousand times that our old culture was too much likethe Terrans' own to be of interest to them, he said, with affectedweariness. After all, most civilized societies are basically similar;it is only primitive societies that differ sharply, one from theother—and we have to be different to attract Earthmen. They're prettychoosy. You've got to give them what they want, and that's what theywant. Now take up your post on the edge of the field, try to lookhungry, and remember this isn't for you or for me, but for Snaddra. For Snaddra, Larhgan said, placing her hand over her anterior heartin a gesture which, though devout on Earth—or so the fictapes seemedto indicate—was obscene on Snaddra, owing to the fact that certainessential organs were located in different areas in the Snaddrath thanin the corresponding Terrestrial life-form. Already the Terrestrialinfluence was corrupting her, Skkiru thought mournfully. She had beensuch a nice girl, too. We may never meet on equal terms again, Skkiru, she told him, with along, soulful glance that made his hearts sink down to his quiveringtoes, but I promise you there will never be anyone else for me—andI hope that knowledge will inspire you to complete cooperation withBbulas. If that doesn't, Bbulas said, I have other methods of inspiration. All right, Skkiru answered sulkily. I'll go to the edge of thefield, and I'll speak broken Inter-galactic, and I'll forsake my normalhabits and customs, and I'll even beg . But I don't have to like doingit, and I don't intend to like doing it. All three of Larhgan's eyes fuzzed with emotion. I'm proud of you,Skkiru, she said brokenly. Bbulas sniffed. The three of them floated up to ground level in atriple silence. <doc-sep>Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, Skkiru chanted, as the two Terransdescended from the ship and plowed their way through the mud to meet aprocession of young Snaddrath dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes,and singing a popular ballad—to which less ribald, as well as lessinspiring, words than the originals had been fitted by Bbulas, justin case, by some extremely remote chance, the Terrans had acquired asmattering of Snadd somewhere. Since neither party was accustomed tonavigating mud, their progress was almost imperceptible. Alms, for the love of Ipsnadd, chanted Skkiru the beggar.His teeth chattered as he spoke, for the rags he wore had beencustom-weatherbeaten for him by the planet's best tailor—now a pariah,of course, because Snadd tailors were, naturally, metal-workers—andthe wind and the rain were joyously making their way through thedemolished wires. Never before had Skkiru been on the surface of theplanet, except to pass over, and he had actually touched it only whentaking off and landing. The Snaddrath had no means of land transport,having previously found it unnecessary—but now both air-cars andself-levitation were on the prohibited list as being insufficientlyprimitive. The outside was no place for a civilized human being, particularlyin the wet season or—more properly speaking on Snaddra—the wetterseason. Skkiru's feet were soaked with mud; not that the light sandalsworn by the members of the procession appeared to be doing them muchgood, either. It gave him a kind of melancholy pleasure to see that theprivileged ones were likewise trying to repress shivers. Though theircostumes were rich, they were also scanty, particularly in the caseof the females, for Earthmen had been reported by tape and tale to behumanoid. As the mud clutched his toes, Skkiru remembered an idea he had oncegotten from an old sporting fictape of Terrestrial origin and hadalways planned to experiment with, but had never gotten around to—theweather had always been so weathery, there were so many other morecomfortable sports, Larhgan had wanted him to spend more of his leisurehours with her, and so on. However, he still had the equipment, whichhe'd salvaged from a wrecked air-car, in his apartment—and it was thematter of a moment to run down, while Bbulas was looking the other way,and get it. Bbulas couldn't really object, Skkiru stilled the nagging quiver inhis toe, because what could be more primitive than any form of landtransport? And even though it took time to get the things, they workedso well that, in spite of the procession's head start, he was at theEarth ship long before the official greeters had reached it. <doc-sep>The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarlypasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennaedistinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed muchas the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb. In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehowexpected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he hadfrequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily thosecould be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he hadalways understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus provingbeyond a doubt that they had something to hide. Look, Raoul, the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—whichthe Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed tounderstand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionablethird language on most of the outer planets. A beggar. Haven't seenone since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work onthat little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get morethan a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough toamass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives triedto eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry. Oh, they were cannibals? the other Earthman asked, so respectfullythat it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. Howhorrible! No, not at all, the other assured him. They weren't human—anotherspecies entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, itwas quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moralconsiderations seemed less important to us than self-preservationjust then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let themissionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know. And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril? They softened up the missionaries, I believe. Cyril laughed. Ah,well, it's all in the day's work. I hope these creatures are not man-eaters, Raoul commented, witha polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncomingprocession— creatures indeed ! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it wouldbe indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especiallysince this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it. Oh, you will, my boy, you will. Cyril clapped the younger man on theshoulder. I have every confidence in your ability. Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite ofBbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—whichhad always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligentlife-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; itwasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite. The natives certainly appear to be human enough, Raoul added, withan appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for theprocessional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. Someslight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, threeeyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been myfavorite color. If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turnbright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normalhealthy emerald to a sickly celadon. <doc-sep>Cyril frowned and his companion's smile vanished, as if the contortionof his superior's face had activated a circuit somewhere. Maybe thelittle one's a robot! However, it couldn't be—a robot would be betterconstructed and less interested in females than Raoul. Remember, Cyril said sternly, we must not establish undue rapportwith the native females. It tends to detract from true objectivity. Yes, Cyril, Raoul said meekly. Cyril assumed a more cheerful aspect I should like to give this chapsomething for old times' sake. What do you suppose is the medium ofexchange here? Money , Skkiru said to himself, but he didn't dare contribute thispiece of information, helpful though it would be. How should I know? Raoul shrugged. Empathize. Get in there, old chap, and start batting. Why not give him a bar of chocolate, then? Raoul suggested grumpily.The language of the stomach, like the language of love, is said to bea universal one. Splendid idea! I always knew you had it in you, Raoul! Skkiru accepted the candy with suitable—and entirely genuine—murmursof gratitude. Chocolate was found only in the most expensive of theplanet's delicacy shops—and now neither delicacy shops nor chocolatewere to be found, so, if Bbulas thought he was going to save the giftto contribute it later to the Treasury, the high priest was off hisrocker. To make sure there would be no subsequent dispute about possession,Skkiru ate the candy then and there. Chocolate increased the body'sresistance to weather, and never before had he had to endure so muchweather all at once. On Earth, he had heard, where people lived exposed to weather, theyoften sickened of it and passed on—which helped to solve the problemof birth control on so vulgarly fecund a planet. Snaddra, alas, neededno such measures, for its population—like its natural resources—wasdwindling rapidly. Still, Skkiru thought, as he moodily munched on thechocolate, it would have been better to flicker out on their own thanto descend to a subterfuge like this for nothing more than survival. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>Unfortunately, the fees that he'd received in the past had not enabledhim both to live well and to save, and now that his fortunes had beenso drastically reduced, he seemed in a fair way of starving to death.It gave him a gentle, moody pleasure to envisage his own funeral,although, at the same time, he realized that Bbulas would probably haveto arrange some sort of pension for him; he could not expect Skkiru'spatriotism to extend to abnormal limits. A man might be willing to diefor his planet in many ways—but wantonly starving to death as theresult of a primitive affectation was hardly one of them. All the same, Skkiru reflected as he watched the visitors being led offto the native hut prepared for them, how ignominious it would be forone of the brightest young architects on the planet to have to subsistmiserably on the dole just because the world had gone aboveground. Thecapital had risen to the surface and the other cities would soon followsuit. Meanwhile, a careful system of tabus had been designed to keepthe Earthmen from discovering the existence of those other cities. He could, of course, emigrate to another part of the planet, to one ofthem, and stave off his doom for a while—but that would not be playingthe game. Besides, in such a case, he wouldn't be able to see Larhgan. As if all this weren't bad enough, he had been done an injury whichstruck directly at his professional pride. He hadn't even been allowedto help in planning the huts. Bbulas and some workmen had done all thatthemselves with the aid of some antique blueprints that had been putout centuries before by a Terrestrial magazine and had been acquiredfrom a rare tape-and-book dealer on Gambrell, for, Skkiru thought, fartoo high a price. He could have designed them himself just as badly andmuch more cheaply. It wasn't that Skkiru didn't understand well enough that Snaddra hadbeen forced into making such a drastic change in its way of life.What resources it once possessed had been depleted and—aside fromminerals—they had never been very extensive to begin with. Alllife-forms on the planet were on the point of extinction, save fish andrice—the only vegetable that would grow on Snaddra, and originally aTerran import at that. So food and fiber had to be brought from theother planets, at fabulous expense, for Snaddra was not on any ofthe direct trade routes and was too unattractive to lure the touristbusiness. Something definitely had to be done, if it were not to decayaltogether. And that was where the Planetary Dilettante came in. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Bbulas, and what happens to him throughout the story?

Bbulas, a Snaddrath, was chosen as a young boy to attend a Terran school on Gambrell. This Terran League University was far too expensive for any Snaddrath to afford, not only due to tuition costs. The travel expenses alone were outrageous. And so, only one student per generation would receive funds to attend. Since Bbulas was schooled there, he has more Terran tendencies than his brethren, such as his ability to not show emotions or keep from whirling when upset. After attending university, he was selected to work as the Planetary Dilettante. This selection process involves testing Snaddrath in a variety of subjects. Evidently, Bbulas’ scores were the highest, so when President Luccar declared a state of emergency, he chose Bbulas to fix the situation at hand. Bbulas designed the Bbulas Plan to solve Snaddra’s economic downfall. His ultimate goal was to entice Terrans to come to Snaddra and support the planet with foreign trade. In order to do so, he decided to completely redesign their entire culture and move their capital aboveground. Bbulas believes that Terrans will be more likely to help if Snaddra is primitive in nature. The story begins with an argument between Skkiru, Larhgan, and Bbulas. Bbulas elected himself High Priest in the new world, and the lots elected Larhgan to be the High Priestess. Skkiru, her fiance, was to be a beggar, sot hey could no longer be together, much to Bbulas’ delight. After passively threatening Skkiru, the three rise to the surface and ready themselves for the Terrans’ arrival. Bbulas welcomes the Terrans at the temple and invites them to a stop-the-rain ceremony. He sends the Terrans to their hut and then becomes upset at Skkiru for wearing mud shoes when he is supposed to be a beggar.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep><doc-sep>Grampa was a white-haired 90-year-old who could still go a fast roundor two with a man (or woman) half his age, but he had a habit oflapsing into tantrum when he got annoyed. Now, Grampa, Fred soothed, but his face was concerned. Fred, oncecalled Young Fred, was Grampa's only son. He was sixty and his hair hadbegun to gray at the temples. That landing was pretty rough, Junior. <doc-sep>Junior was Fred's only son. Because he was thirty-five and capableof exercising adult judgment and because he had the youngest adultreflexes, he sat in the pilot's chair, the control stick between hisknees, his thumb still over the Off-On button on top. I know it,Fred, he said, frowning. This world fooled me. It has a diameterless than that of Mercury and yet a gravitational pull as great asEarth. Grampa started to say something, but an 8-year-old boy looked up fromthe navigator's table beside the big computer and said, Well, gosh,Junior, that's why we picked this planet. We fed all the orbital datainto Abacus, and Abacus said that orbital perturbations indicated thatthe second planet was unusually heavy for its size. Then Fred said,'That looks like heavy metals', and you said, 'Maybe uranium—' That's enough, Four, Junior interrupted. Never mind what I said. Those were the Peppergrass men, four generations of them, lookingremarkably alike, although some vital element seemed to have dwindleduntil Four looked pale and thin-faced and wizened. And, Four, Reba said automatically, don't call your father 'Junior.'It sounds disrespectful. Reba was Four's mother and Junior's wife. On her own, she was ared-haired beauty with the loveliest figure this side of Antares. ThatJunior had won her was, to Grampa, the most hopeful thing he had evernoticed about the boy. But everybody calls Junior 'Junior,' Four complained. Besides, Fredis Junior's father and Junior calls him 'Fred.' That's different, Reba said. Grampa was still waving his puzzle circuit indignantly. See! Thepircuit was a flat box equipped with pushbuttons and thirteen slenderopenings in the top. One of the openings was lighted. That landingmade me push the wrong button and the dad-blasted thing beat me again. Stop picking on Junior, Joyce said sharply. She was Junior's motherand Fred's wife, still slim and handsome as she approached sixty, butsomehow ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. I'm surehe did the best he could. Anybody talks about gravitational pull, Grampa said, snorting,deserves anything anybody could say about him. There's no such thing,Junior. You ought to know by now that gravitation is the effect of thecurving of space-time around matter. Einstein proved that two hundredyears ago. Go back to your games, Grampa, Fred said impatiently. We've got workto do. <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow? It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare. That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it? You bought it, Grampa, Fred said. That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space? You, Grampa, Fred said. You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die? And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa! Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone. You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time! Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game? Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner. That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto— Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly. <doc-sep>Four shrugged his narrow shoulders and wandered to the view screen.Within it was the green horizon, curving noticeably. Four angled thepicture in toward the ship, sweeping through green, peaceful woodlandand plain and blue lake until he stared down into the meadow at theflivver's stern. Look! he said suddenly. This planet not only has flora—it hasfauna. He rushed to the air lock. Four! Reba called out warningly. It's all right, Reba, Four assured her. The air is within one percent of Earth-normal and the bio-analyzer can find no micro-organismsviable within the Terran spectrum. What about macro-organisms— Reba began, but the boy was gonealready. Reba's face was troubled. That boy! she said to Junior.Sometimes I think we've made a terrible mistake with him. He shouldhave friends, play-mates. He's more like a little old man than a boy. But Junior nodded meaningfully at Fred and disappeared into the chartroom. Fred followed casually. Then, as the door slid shut behind him,he asked impatiently. Well, what's all the mystery? No use bothering the others yet, Junior said, his face puzzled. Yousee, I didn't let the flivver drop those last few inches. The polarizerquit. Quit! That's not the worst. I tried to take it up again. The flivver—itwon't budge! <doc-sep>The thing was a featureless blob, a two-foot sphere of raspberrygelatin, but it was alive. It rocked back and forth in front of Four.It opened a raspberry-color pseudo-mouth and said plaintively, Fweep?Fweep? Joyce drew her chair farther back toward the wall, revulsion on herface. Four! Get that nasty thing out of here! <doc-sep><doc-sep>You mean Fweep? Four asked in astonishment. I mean that thing, whatever you call it. Joyce fluttered her handimpatiently. Get it out! Four's eyes widened farther. But Fweep's my friend. Nonsense! Joyce said sharply. Earthmen don't make friends withaliens. And that's nothing but a—a blob! Fweep? queried the raspberry lips. Fweep? If it's Four's friend, Reba said firmly, it can stay. If you don'tlike to be around it, Grammy, you can always go to your own room. Joyce stood up indignantly. Well! And don't call me 'Grammy!' It makesme sound as old as that old goat over there! She glared malignantlyat Grampa. If you'd rather have that blob than me—well! She sweptgrandly out of the central cabin and into one of the private rooms thatopened out from it. Fweep? asked the blob. Sure, Four said. Go ahead, fweep—I mean sweep. Swiftly the sphere rolled across the floor. Behind it was left anarrow path of sparkling clean tile. Grampa glanced warily at Joyce's door to make sure it was completelyclosed and then cocked a white eyebrow at Reba. Good for you, Reba!he said admiringly. For forty years now, I've wanted to do that. Neverhad the nerve. Why, thanks, Grampa, Reba said, surprised. I like you, gal. Never forget it. I like you, too, Grampa. If you'd been a few years younger, Juniorwould have had competition! You bet he would! Grampa leaned back and cackled. Then he leanedover confidentially toward Reba and whispered, Beats me why you evermarried a jerk like Junior, anyhow. Reba looked thoughtfully toward the airlock door. Maybe I sawsomething in him nobody else saw, the man he might become. He's beensubmerged in this family too long; he's still a child to all of youand to himself, too. Reba smiled at Grampa brilliantly. And maybe Ithought he might grow into a man like his grandfather. <doc-sep>Grampa turned red and looked quickly toward Four. The boy was staringintently at Fweep. What you doing, Four? Trying to figure out what Fweep does with the sweepings, Four saidabsently. The outer inch or two of his body gets cloudy and thenslowly clears. I think I'll try him with a bigger particle. That's the idea, Four. You'll be a Peppergrass yet. How about buildingme a pircuit? You get the other one figured out? It was easy, Grampa said breezily, once you understood theprinciple. The player who moved second could always win if he used theright strategy. Dividing the thirteen lights into three sections offour each— That's right, Four agreed. I can make you a new one by cannibalizingthe other pircuit, but I'll need a few extra parts. Grampa pushed the wall beside his chair and a drawer slid out of it. Inside were row after row of nipple-topped, flat-sided, flexiblefree-fall bottles and a battered cigar box. Thought you'd say that,he said, picking out the box. Help yourself. With the other hand, helifted out one of the bottles and took a long drag on it. Ahhh! hesighed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and carefully putthe bottle away. What is that stuff you drink, Grampa? Four asked. Tonic, boy. Keeps me young and frisky. Now about that pircuit— Did you ever work on Niccolò Tartaglia's puzzle about the three lovelybrides, the three jealous husbands, the river and the two-passengerrowboat? Yep, Grampa said. Too easy. Four thought a moment. There's a modern variation with threemissionaries and three cannibals. Same river, same rowboat and only oneof the cannibals can row. If the cannibals outnumber the missionaries— Sounds good, boy, Grampa said eagerly. Whip it up for me. Okay, Grampa. Four looked at Fweep again. The translucent sphere hadpaused at Grampa's feet. Grampa reached down to pat it. For an instant, his hand disappearedinto Fweep, and then the alien creature rolled away. This time its pathseemed crooked. Its gelatinous form jiggled. Hic! it said. <doc-sep>As if in response, the flivver vibrated. Grampa looked querulouslytoward the airlock. Flivver shouldn't shake like that. Not with thepolarizer turned on. The airlock door swung inward. Through the oval doorway walked Fred,followed closely by Junior. They were sweat-stained and weary,scintillation counters dangling heavily from their belts. Any luck? Reba asked brightly. Do we look it? Junior grumbled. Where's Joyce? asked Fred. Might as well get everybody in on this atonce. Joyce! The door to his wife's room opened instantly. Behind it, Joyce wasregal and slim. The pose was spoiled immediately by her avid question:Any uranium? Radium? Thorium? No, Fred said slowly, and no other heavy metals, either. There's afew low-grade iron deposits and that's it. Then what makes this planet so heavy? Reba asked. Junior shrugged helplessly and collapsed into a chair. Your guess isas good as anybody's. Then we've wasted another week on a worthless rock, Joyce complained.She turned savagely on Fred. This was going to make us all filthyrich. We were going to find radioactives and retire to Earth likebillionaires. And all we've done is spent a year of our lives in thiscramped old flivver—and we don't have many of them to spare! Sheglared venomously at Grampa. We've still got Fweepland, Four said solemnly. Fweepland? Reba repeated. This planet. It's not big, but it's fertile and it's harmless. Asreal estate, it's worth almost as much as if it were solid uranium. A good thing, too, Junior said glumly, because this looks like theend of our search. Short of a miracle, we'll spend the rest of ourlives right here—involuntary colonists. Joyce spun on him. You're joking! she screeched. I wish I were, Junior said. But the polarizer won't work. Eitherit's broken or there's something about the gravity around here thatjust won't polarize. It's these '23 models, Grampa put in disgustedly. They never wereany good. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses. The faces were still blank and unillumined. Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted. The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do. Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.' The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible. Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it. But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted. Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit. Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically. Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep rotated once on its axis, and Grampa loweredthe nippled bottle from his lips. He sighed. I got it figured out,Four, he said, holding out the pircuit proudly. A missionary takesover a non-rowing type cannibal, leaves him there, and then the rowingcannibal takes over the other cannibal and leaves him there and— Not now, Grampa, Four said inattentively as he watched Fweep makingthe grand tour of the cabin. The raspberry sphere swept over a scattering of crumbs, engulfed them,absorbed them. Four looked at Joyce. Joyce was watching Fweep, too. Rat poison? Four asked. Joyce started guiltily. How did you know? There's no use trying to poison Fweep, Four said calmly. He's got noenzymes to act on, no nervous system to paralyze. He doesn't even usewhat he 'eats' on a molecular level at all. What level does he use? Junior wanted to know. Point the scintillation counter at him. Junior dug one of the counters out of the supply cabinet and aimed thepickup at Fweep. The counter began to hum. As Fweep approached, the humrose in pitch. As it passed, the hum dropped. Junior looked at the counter's dial. He's radioactive, all right. Notmuch, but enough. But where does he get the radioactive material? He uses ordinary matter, Four said. He must have used up the fewdeposits of natural radioactives a long time ago. He uses ordinary substances on an atomic level? Junior saidunbelievingly. Four nodded. And that 'skin' of his—whatever it is he uses forskin—is more efficient in stopping particle emissions than severalfeet of lead. Fred studied Fweep thoughtfully. Maybe we could feed him enoughenriched uranium from the pile to put him over the critical mass. And blow him up? I don't think it's possible, but even if it were, itmight be a trifle more than disastrous for us. Four giggled at thethought. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>Linear polarization is uncomfortable for him, is it? Grampa said.Makes you wonder how something like Fweep could ever develop. He's no more improbable than people, said Four. Less than some I've known, Grampa conceded. If he can eat anything, Reba said, why does he keep sweeping thecabin for dust and lint? He wants to be helpful, Four replied without hesitation, and he'slonely. After all, he added wistfully, he's never had any friends. How do you know all these things? Joyce asked from her doorway,excitement in her voice. Can you talk to it? Behind her, Fred said, Now, Joyce, you promised— But this is important, Joyce cut him off eagerly. Can you? Talk toit, I mean? Some, Four admitted. Have you asked it to let us go? Yes. Well? What did it say? He said he didn't want his friend to leave him. At the word, Fweep rolled swiftly across the floor and bounced intoFour's lap. It nestled against him lovingly and opened raspberry lips.Fwiend, it said. Well, now, Grampa said maliciously, his eye on Joyce, that's noproblem. We can just leave Four here with Fweep. In a voice filled with sanctimonious concern, Joyce said, That's quitea sacrifice to ask, but— Joyce! Reba cried, horrified. Grampa was joking, but you actuallymean it. Four is only a baby and yet you'd let him— Never mind, Reba, Four said evenly. It was just what I was going tosuggest myself. It's the one really logical solution. Fwiend, said Fweep gently. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone. Junior! said Joyce, shocked. Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work. I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug— Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's! Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair. Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet. Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on. I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him. Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do. That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints. That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing. He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Grampa Peppergrass is an inventor, creator of the gravity polarizer and the space flivver, which have earned him one hundred million dollars. But he invested much of his earnings in perpetual motion machines and longevity pills. Now, the Peppergrass family travels to different planets, searching for radioactive metals that they can exploit to make themselves a fortune. The family consists of four generations of men and their spouses. Apparently, Grandpa, who is 90-years-old, is a widower. His son, Fred, is 60 and married to Joyce. Their son Junior, 35, is married to Reba; they are parents of an eight-year-old genius son known as Four. The flivver they travel in was purchased by Grampa, who gave ⅙ ownership to each of the family members. The flivver’s landing is unusually bumpy because the gravity polarizer failed. Through the view screen, they see that the planet has meadows, woodlands, plains, and lakes, and Four announces that it also has fauna before he rushes out the air lock to check it out. The ship has already ascertained that the air is almost like that on Earth, and there are no micro-organisms. When Four returns to the flivver accompanied by the native fauna, Fweep, he announces they are friends. The creature looks like a transparent blob and likes to sweep. Four is curious about what Fweep does with the sweepings since the outer inch or so of his body turns cloudy but clears afterward. After Fred and Junior use their scintillation counters to search for heavy metals, they return to the flivver to report there aren’t any, just low-grade iron. The group mulls over what could be making the planet so heavy if it doesn’t have heavy metals, but no one has the answer. Junior and Fred tell the rest of the family that the gravity polarizer isn’t working and that without it, they will not be able to lift off. Reba looks on the bright side and says they can have more children instead of stopping at one child, as is currently the dictated number on Earth. In the meantime, Four returns from an excursion searching for the center of gravity for the planet and announces that it changes because of Fweep’s presence. The little guy is a circular polarizer, making the planet heavy and preventing their gravity polarizer from working. Fweep is also radioactive and has impervious skin. Joyce is furious that Fweep is making them stay there, and when Grampa jokingly, or as a test, suggests leaving Four behind with Fweep, she immediately goes along with it. Four offers to stay behind with Fweep, who is lonely and likes having a friend so much it doesn’t want to lose Four. Grampa announces that the problem isn’t one that their computer can solve; instead, it’s a logic problem like the ones Four told him earlier.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep><doc-sep>Grampa was a white-haired 90-year-old who could still go a fast roundor two with a man (or woman) half his age, but he had a habit oflapsing into tantrum when he got annoyed. Now, Grampa, Fred soothed, but his face was concerned. Fred, oncecalled Young Fred, was Grampa's only son. He was sixty and his hair hadbegun to gray at the temples. That landing was pretty rough, Junior. <doc-sep>Junior was Fred's only son. Because he was thirty-five and capableof exercising adult judgment and because he had the youngest adultreflexes, he sat in the pilot's chair, the control stick between hisknees, his thumb still over the Off-On button on top. I know it,Fred, he said, frowning. This world fooled me. It has a diameterless than that of Mercury and yet a gravitational pull as great asEarth. Grampa started to say something, but an 8-year-old boy looked up fromthe navigator's table beside the big computer and said, Well, gosh,Junior, that's why we picked this planet. We fed all the orbital datainto Abacus, and Abacus said that orbital perturbations indicated thatthe second planet was unusually heavy for its size. Then Fred said,'That looks like heavy metals', and you said, 'Maybe uranium—' That's enough, Four, Junior interrupted. Never mind what I said. Those were the Peppergrass men, four generations of them, lookingremarkably alike, although some vital element seemed to have dwindleduntil Four looked pale and thin-faced and wizened. And, Four, Reba said automatically, don't call your father 'Junior.'It sounds disrespectful. Reba was Four's mother and Junior's wife. On her own, she was ared-haired beauty with the loveliest figure this side of Antares. ThatJunior had won her was, to Grampa, the most hopeful thing he had evernoticed about the boy. But everybody calls Junior 'Junior,' Four complained. Besides, Fredis Junior's father and Junior calls him 'Fred.' That's different, Reba said. Grampa was still waving his puzzle circuit indignantly. See! Thepircuit was a flat box equipped with pushbuttons and thirteen slenderopenings in the top. One of the openings was lighted. That landingmade me push the wrong button and the dad-blasted thing beat me again. Stop picking on Junior, Joyce said sharply. She was Junior's motherand Fred's wife, still slim and handsome as she approached sixty, butsomehow ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. I'm surehe did the best he could. Anybody talks about gravitational pull, Grampa said, snorting,deserves anything anybody could say about him. There's no such thing,Junior. You ought to know by now that gravitation is the effect of thecurving of space-time around matter. Einstein proved that two hundredyears ago. Go back to your games, Grampa, Fred said impatiently. We've got workto do. <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow? It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare. That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it? You bought it, Grampa, Fred said. That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space? You, Grampa, Fred said. You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die? And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa! Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone. You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time! Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game? Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner. That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto— Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly. <doc-sep>Four shrugged his narrow shoulders and wandered to the view screen.Within it was the green horizon, curving noticeably. Four angled thepicture in toward the ship, sweeping through green, peaceful woodlandand plain and blue lake until he stared down into the meadow at theflivver's stern. Look! he said suddenly. This planet not only has flora—it hasfauna. He rushed to the air lock. Four! Reba called out warningly. It's all right, Reba, Four assured her. The air is within one percent of Earth-normal and the bio-analyzer can find no micro-organismsviable within the Terran spectrum. What about macro-organisms— Reba began, but the boy was gonealready. Reba's face was troubled. That boy! she said to Junior.Sometimes I think we've made a terrible mistake with him. He shouldhave friends, play-mates. He's more like a little old man than a boy. But Junior nodded meaningfully at Fred and disappeared into the chartroom. Fred followed casually. Then, as the door slid shut behind him,he asked impatiently. Well, what's all the mystery? No use bothering the others yet, Junior said, his face puzzled. Yousee, I didn't let the flivver drop those last few inches. The polarizerquit. Quit! That's not the worst. I tried to take it up again. The flivver—itwon't budge! <doc-sep>The thing was a featureless blob, a two-foot sphere of raspberrygelatin, but it was alive. It rocked back and forth in front of Four.It opened a raspberry-color pseudo-mouth and said plaintively, Fweep?Fweep? Joyce drew her chair farther back toward the wall, revulsion on herface. Four! Get that nasty thing out of here! <doc-sep><doc-sep>You mean Fweep? Four asked in astonishment. I mean that thing, whatever you call it. Joyce fluttered her handimpatiently. Get it out! Four's eyes widened farther. But Fweep's my friend. Nonsense! Joyce said sharply. Earthmen don't make friends withaliens. And that's nothing but a—a blob! Fweep? queried the raspberry lips. Fweep? If it's Four's friend, Reba said firmly, it can stay. If you don'tlike to be around it, Grammy, you can always go to your own room. Joyce stood up indignantly. Well! And don't call me 'Grammy!' It makesme sound as old as that old goat over there! She glared malignantlyat Grampa. If you'd rather have that blob than me—well! She sweptgrandly out of the central cabin and into one of the private rooms thatopened out from it. Fweep? asked the blob. Sure, Four said. Go ahead, fweep—I mean sweep. Swiftly the sphere rolled across the floor. Behind it was left anarrow path of sparkling clean tile. Grampa glanced warily at Joyce's door to make sure it was completelyclosed and then cocked a white eyebrow at Reba. Good for you, Reba!he said admiringly. For forty years now, I've wanted to do that. Neverhad the nerve. Why, thanks, Grampa, Reba said, surprised. I like you, gal. Never forget it. I like you, too, Grampa. If you'd been a few years younger, Juniorwould have had competition! You bet he would! Grampa leaned back and cackled. Then he leanedover confidentially toward Reba and whispered, Beats me why you evermarried a jerk like Junior, anyhow. Reba looked thoughtfully toward the airlock door. Maybe I sawsomething in him nobody else saw, the man he might become. He's beensubmerged in this family too long; he's still a child to all of youand to himself, too. Reba smiled at Grampa brilliantly. And maybe Ithought he might grow into a man like his grandfather. <doc-sep>Grampa turned red and looked quickly toward Four. The boy was staringintently at Fweep. What you doing, Four? Trying to figure out what Fweep does with the sweepings, Four saidabsently. The outer inch or two of his body gets cloudy and thenslowly clears. I think I'll try him with a bigger particle. That's the idea, Four. You'll be a Peppergrass yet. How about buildingme a pircuit? You get the other one figured out? It was easy, Grampa said breezily, once you understood theprinciple. The player who moved second could always win if he used theright strategy. Dividing the thirteen lights into three sections offour each— That's right, Four agreed. I can make you a new one by cannibalizingthe other pircuit, but I'll need a few extra parts. Grampa pushed the wall beside his chair and a drawer slid out of it. Inside were row after row of nipple-topped, flat-sided, flexiblefree-fall bottles and a battered cigar box. Thought you'd say that,he said, picking out the box. Help yourself. With the other hand, helifted out one of the bottles and took a long drag on it. Ahhh! hesighed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and carefully putthe bottle away. What is that stuff you drink, Grampa? Four asked. Tonic, boy. Keeps me young and frisky. Now about that pircuit— Did you ever work on Niccolò Tartaglia's puzzle about the three lovelybrides, the three jealous husbands, the river and the two-passengerrowboat? Yep, Grampa said. Too easy. Four thought a moment. There's a modern variation with threemissionaries and three cannibals. Same river, same rowboat and only oneof the cannibals can row. If the cannibals outnumber the missionaries— Sounds good, boy, Grampa said eagerly. Whip it up for me. Okay, Grampa. Four looked at Fweep again. The translucent sphere hadpaused at Grampa's feet. Grampa reached down to pat it. For an instant, his hand disappearedinto Fweep, and then the alien creature rolled away. This time its pathseemed crooked. Its gelatinous form jiggled. Hic! it said. <doc-sep>As if in response, the flivver vibrated. Grampa looked querulouslytoward the airlock. Flivver shouldn't shake like that. Not with thepolarizer turned on. The airlock door swung inward. Through the oval doorway walked Fred,followed closely by Junior. They were sweat-stained and weary,scintillation counters dangling heavily from their belts. Any luck? Reba asked brightly. Do we look it? Junior grumbled. Where's Joyce? asked Fred. Might as well get everybody in on this atonce. Joyce! The door to his wife's room opened instantly. Behind it, Joyce wasregal and slim. The pose was spoiled immediately by her avid question:Any uranium? Radium? Thorium? No, Fred said slowly, and no other heavy metals, either. There's afew low-grade iron deposits and that's it. Then what makes this planet so heavy? Reba asked. Junior shrugged helplessly and collapsed into a chair. Your guess isas good as anybody's. Then we've wasted another week on a worthless rock, Joyce complained.She turned savagely on Fred. This was going to make us all filthyrich. We were going to find radioactives and retire to Earth likebillionaires. And all we've done is spent a year of our lives in thiscramped old flivver—and we don't have many of them to spare! Sheglared venomously at Grampa. We've still got Fweepland, Four said solemnly. Fweepland? Reba repeated. This planet. It's not big, but it's fertile and it's harmless. Asreal estate, it's worth almost as much as if it were solid uranium. A good thing, too, Junior said glumly, because this looks like theend of our search. Short of a miracle, we'll spend the rest of ourlives right here—involuntary colonists. Joyce spun on him. You're joking! she screeched. I wish I were, Junior said. But the polarizer won't work. Eitherit's broken or there's something about the gravity around here thatjust won't polarize. It's these '23 models, Grampa put in disgustedly. They never wereany good. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses. The faces were still blank and unillumined. Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted. The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do. Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.' The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible. Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it. But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted. Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit. Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically. Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep rotated once on its axis, and Grampa loweredthe nippled bottle from his lips. He sighed. I got it figured out,Four, he said, holding out the pircuit proudly. A missionary takesover a non-rowing type cannibal, leaves him there, and then the rowingcannibal takes over the other cannibal and leaves him there and— Not now, Grampa, Four said inattentively as he watched Fweep makingthe grand tour of the cabin. The raspberry sphere swept over a scattering of crumbs, engulfed them,absorbed them. Four looked at Joyce. Joyce was watching Fweep, too. Rat poison? Four asked. Joyce started guiltily. How did you know? There's no use trying to poison Fweep, Four said calmly. He's got noenzymes to act on, no nervous system to paralyze. He doesn't even usewhat he 'eats' on a molecular level at all. What level does he use? Junior wanted to know. Point the scintillation counter at him. Junior dug one of the counters out of the supply cabinet and aimed thepickup at Fweep. The counter began to hum. As Fweep approached, the humrose in pitch. As it passed, the hum dropped. Junior looked at the counter's dial. He's radioactive, all right. Notmuch, but enough. But where does he get the radioactive material? He uses ordinary matter, Four said. He must have used up the fewdeposits of natural radioactives a long time ago. He uses ordinary substances on an atomic level? Junior saidunbelievingly. Four nodded. And that 'skin' of his—whatever it is he uses forskin—is more efficient in stopping particle emissions than severalfeet of lead. Fred studied Fweep thoughtfully. Maybe we could feed him enoughenriched uranium from the pile to put him over the critical mass. And blow him up? I don't think it's possible, but even if it were, itmight be a trifle more than disastrous for us. Four giggled at thethought. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>Linear polarization is uncomfortable for him, is it? Grampa said.Makes you wonder how something like Fweep could ever develop. He's no more improbable than people, said Four. Less than some I've known, Grampa conceded. If he can eat anything, Reba said, why does he keep sweeping thecabin for dust and lint? He wants to be helpful, Four replied without hesitation, and he'slonely. After all, he added wistfully, he's never had any friends. How do you know all these things? Joyce asked from her doorway,excitement in her voice. Can you talk to it? Behind her, Fred said, Now, Joyce, you promised— But this is important, Joyce cut him off eagerly. Can you? Talk toit, I mean? Some, Four admitted. Have you asked it to let us go? Yes. Well? What did it say? He said he didn't want his friend to leave him. At the word, Fweep rolled swiftly across the floor and bounced intoFour's lap. It nestled against him lovingly and opened raspberry lips.Fwiend, it said. Well, now, Grampa said maliciously, his eye on Joyce, that's noproblem. We can just leave Four here with Fweep. In a voice filled with sanctimonious concern, Joyce said, That's quitea sacrifice to ask, but— Joyce! Reba cried, horrified. Grampa was joking, but you actuallymean it. Four is only a baby and yet you'd let him— Never mind, Reba, Four said evenly. It was just what I was going tosuggest myself. It's the one really logical solution. Fwiend, said Fweep gently. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone. Junior! said Joyce, shocked. Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work. I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug— Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's! Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair. Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet. Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on. I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him. Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do. That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints. That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing. He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The first setting mentioned in the story is the flivver, a bullet-shaped spaceship that lands vertically on the blunt end. It is made of sheet metal and insulation board. Fully equipped, a flivver sells for $15,730. The flivver has a large central cabin with the pilot’s chair; the control stick is situated between the pilot’s knees, and there is an on/off button for the gravity polarizer. It is also equipped with a computer named Abacus that analyzes data that fed into it. Flivvers have their own power plants that operate their lights, air and water recirculation systems, and food and clothing synthesizers. It also has a storage battery. Off of the central cabin, there are several private rooms. The flivver is owned jointly by the Peppergrass family; Grandpa bought it the ‘23 model and gave everyone ⅙ shares. The flivver also carries devices that can analyze the air and detect microorganisms.The other setting where the story takes place is on a planet much like Earth, with a diameter smaller than Mercury’s but a gravitational pull as strong as Earth’s. The Peppergrass family calls the world Fweepland since “Fweep” is the sound/word the one organism there says. Fweepland’s air is within 1% of Earth’s air, and there are no microorganisms present. Fweepland features a beautiful landscape with a peaceful green woodland, grassy plains, a meadow, and a blue lake. The only organism they encounter is Fweep, a friendly blob-shaped creature that sweeps over debris and picks it up. The Peppergrass family hopes to find radioactive or heavy metals on the planet, but their scintillation counters only detect low-grade iron. Four points out that while it doesn’t have the metals they are looking for, the planet is very valuable as real estate. Interestingly, the planet’s center of gravity shifts wherever Fweep goes. A day on Fweepland is 16 Earth hours, as that is the length of time it takes for one rotation of the planet.The story presumably takes place sometime in the 22nd century as Grampa references Einstein’s work “two hundred years ago.” There are some references to life on Earth at this time. Families are only allowed one child; if they have more, they are exiled from civilization. We can also assume that others are traveling into space since Grampa became wealthy from his invention of flivvers and gravity polarizers. People on Earth are trying to lengthen their lives, hence Grampa’s efforts to create longevity pills and his hundred-year contract with the Life-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company.

Who is Fweep, and what is his significance in the story? [SEP] <s> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep><doc-sep>Grampa was a white-haired 90-year-old who could still go a fast roundor two with a man (or woman) half his age, but he had a habit oflapsing into tantrum when he got annoyed. Now, Grampa, Fred soothed, but his face was concerned. Fred, oncecalled Young Fred, was Grampa's only son. He was sixty and his hair hadbegun to gray at the temples. That landing was pretty rough, Junior. <doc-sep>Junior was Fred's only son. Because he was thirty-five and capableof exercising adult judgment and because he had the youngest adultreflexes, he sat in the pilot's chair, the control stick between hisknees, his thumb still over the Off-On button on top. I know it,Fred, he said, frowning. This world fooled me. It has a diameterless than that of Mercury and yet a gravitational pull as great asEarth. Grampa started to say something, but an 8-year-old boy looked up fromthe navigator's table beside the big computer and said, Well, gosh,Junior, that's why we picked this planet. We fed all the orbital datainto Abacus, and Abacus said that orbital perturbations indicated thatthe second planet was unusually heavy for its size. Then Fred said,'That looks like heavy metals', and you said, 'Maybe uranium—' That's enough, Four, Junior interrupted. Never mind what I said. Those were the Peppergrass men, four generations of them, lookingremarkably alike, although some vital element seemed to have dwindleduntil Four looked pale and thin-faced and wizened. And, Four, Reba said automatically, don't call your father 'Junior.'It sounds disrespectful. Reba was Four's mother and Junior's wife. On her own, she was ared-haired beauty with the loveliest figure this side of Antares. ThatJunior had won her was, to Grampa, the most hopeful thing he had evernoticed about the boy. But everybody calls Junior 'Junior,' Four complained. Besides, Fredis Junior's father and Junior calls him 'Fred.' That's different, Reba said. Grampa was still waving his puzzle circuit indignantly. See! Thepircuit was a flat box equipped with pushbuttons and thirteen slenderopenings in the top. One of the openings was lighted. That landingmade me push the wrong button and the dad-blasted thing beat me again. Stop picking on Junior, Joyce said sharply. She was Junior's motherand Fred's wife, still slim and handsome as she approached sixty, butsomehow ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. I'm surehe did the best he could. Anybody talks about gravitational pull, Grampa said, snorting,deserves anything anybody could say about him. There's no such thing,Junior. You ought to know by now that gravitation is the effect of thecurving of space-time around matter. Einstein proved that two hundredyears ago. Go back to your games, Grampa, Fred said impatiently. We've got workto do. <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow? It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare. That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it? You bought it, Grampa, Fred said. That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space? You, Grampa, Fred said. You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die? And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa! Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone. You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time! Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game? Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner. That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto— Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly. <doc-sep>Four shrugged his narrow shoulders and wandered to the view screen.Within it was the green horizon, curving noticeably. Four angled thepicture in toward the ship, sweeping through green, peaceful woodlandand plain and blue lake until he stared down into the meadow at theflivver's stern. Look! he said suddenly. This planet not only has flora—it hasfauna. He rushed to the air lock. Four! Reba called out warningly. It's all right, Reba, Four assured her. The air is within one percent of Earth-normal and the bio-analyzer can find no micro-organismsviable within the Terran spectrum. What about macro-organisms— Reba began, but the boy was gonealready. Reba's face was troubled. That boy! she said to Junior.Sometimes I think we've made a terrible mistake with him. He shouldhave friends, play-mates. He's more like a little old man than a boy. But Junior nodded meaningfully at Fred and disappeared into the chartroom. Fred followed casually. Then, as the door slid shut behind him,he asked impatiently. Well, what's all the mystery? No use bothering the others yet, Junior said, his face puzzled. Yousee, I didn't let the flivver drop those last few inches. The polarizerquit. Quit! That's not the worst. I tried to take it up again. The flivver—itwon't budge! <doc-sep>The thing was a featureless blob, a two-foot sphere of raspberrygelatin, but it was alive. It rocked back and forth in front of Four.It opened a raspberry-color pseudo-mouth and said plaintively, Fweep?Fweep? Joyce drew her chair farther back toward the wall, revulsion on herface. Four! Get that nasty thing out of here! <doc-sep><doc-sep>You mean Fweep? Four asked in astonishment. I mean that thing, whatever you call it. Joyce fluttered her handimpatiently. Get it out! Four's eyes widened farther. But Fweep's my friend. Nonsense! Joyce said sharply. Earthmen don't make friends withaliens. And that's nothing but a—a blob! Fweep? queried the raspberry lips. Fweep? If it's Four's friend, Reba said firmly, it can stay. If you don'tlike to be around it, Grammy, you can always go to your own room. Joyce stood up indignantly. Well! And don't call me 'Grammy!' It makesme sound as old as that old goat over there! She glared malignantlyat Grampa. If you'd rather have that blob than me—well! She sweptgrandly out of the central cabin and into one of the private rooms thatopened out from it. Fweep? asked the blob. Sure, Four said. Go ahead, fweep—I mean sweep. Swiftly the sphere rolled across the floor. Behind it was left anarrow path of sparkling clean tile. Grampa glanced warily at Joyce's door to make sure it was completelyclosed and then cocked a white eyebrow at Reba. Good for you, Reba!he said admiringly. For forty years now, I've wanted to do that. Neverhad the nerve. Why, thanks, Grampa, Reba said, surprised. I like you, gal. Never forget it. I like you, too, Grampa. If you'd been a few years younger, Juniorwould have had competition! You bet he would! Grampa leaned back and cackled. Then he leanedover confidentially toward Reba and whispered, Beats me why you evermarried a jerk like Junior, anyhow. Reba looked thoughtfully toward the airlock door. Maybe I sawsomething in him nobody else saw, the man he might become. He's beensubmerged in this family too long; he's still a child to all of youand to himself, too. Reba smiled at Grampa brilliantly. And maybe Ithought he might grow into a man like his grandfather. <doc-sep>Grampa turned red and looked quickly toward Four. The boy was staringintently at Fweep. What you doing, Four? Trying to figure out what Fweep does with the sweepings, Four saidabsently. The outer inch or two of his body gets cloudy and thenslowly clears. I think I'll try him with a bigger particle. That's the idea, Four. You'll be a Peppergrass yet. How about buildingme a pircuit? You get the other one figured out? It was easy, Grampa said breezily, once you understood theprinciple. The player who moved second could always win if he used theright strategy. Dividing the thirteen lights into three sections offour each— That's right, Four agreed. I can make you a new one by cannibalizingthe other pircuit, but I'll need a few extra parts. Grampa pushed the wall beside his chair and a drawer slid out of it. Inside were row after row of nipple-topped, flat-sided, flexiblefree-fall bottles and a battered cigar box. Thought you'd say that,he said, picking out the box. Help yourself. With the other hand, helifted out one of the bottles and took a long drag on it. Ahhh! hesighed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and carefully putthe bottle away. What is that stuff you drink, Grampa? Four asked. Tonic, boy. Keeps me young and frisky. Now about that pircuit— Did you ever work on Niccolò Tartaglia's puzzle about the three lovelybrides, the three jealous husbands, the river and the two-passengerrowboat? Yep, Grampa said. Too easy. Four thought a moment. There's a modern variation with threemissionaries and three cannibals. Same river, same rowboat and only oneof the cannibals can row. If the cannibals outnumber the missionaries— Sounds good, boy, Grampa said eagerly. Whip it up for me. Okay, Grampa. Four looked at Fweep again. The translucent sphere hadpaused at Grampa's feet. Grampa reached down to pat it. For an instant, his hand disappearedinto Fweep, and then the alien creature rolled away. This time its pathseemed crooked. Its gelatinous form jiggled. Hic! it said. <doc-sep>As if in response, the flivver vibrated. Grampa looked querulouslytoward the airlock. Flivver shouldn't shake like that. Not with thepolarizer turned on. The airlock door swung inward. Through the oval doorway walked Fred,followed closely by Junior. They were sweat-stained and weary,scintillation counters dangling heavily from their belts. Any luck? Reba asked brightly. Do we look it? Junior grumbled. Where's Joyce? asked Fred. Might as well get everybody in on this atonce. Joyce! The door to his wife's room opened instantly. Behind it, Joyce wasregal and slim. The pose was spoiled immediately by her avid question:Any uranium? Radium? Thorium? No, Fred said slowly, and no other heavy metals, either. There's afew low-grade iron deposits and that's it. Then what makes this planet so heavy? Reba asked. Junior shrugged helplessly and collapsed into a chair. Your guess isas good as anybody's. Then we've wasted another week on a worthless rock, Joyce complained.She turned savagely on Fred. This was going to make us all filthyrich. We were going to find radioactives and retire to Earth likebillionaires. And all we've done is spent a year of our lives in thiscramped old flivver—and we don't have many of them to spare! Sheglared venomously at Grampa. We've still got Fweepland, Four said solemnly. Fweepland? Reba repeated. This planet. It's not big, but it's fertile and it's harmless. Asreal estate, it's worth almost as much as if it were solid uranium. A good thing, too, Junior said glumly, because this looks like theend of our search. Short of a miracle, we'll spend the rest of ourlives right here—involuntary colonists. Joyce spun on him. You're joking! she screeched. I wish I were, Junior said. But the polarizer won't work. Eitherit's broken or there's something about the gravity around here thatjust won't polarize. It's these '23 models, Grampa put in disgustedly. They never wereany good. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses. The faces were still blank and unillumined. Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted. The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do. Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.' The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible. Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it. But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted. Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit. Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically. Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep rotated once on its axis, and Grampa loweredthe nippled bottle from his lips. He sighed. I got it figured out,Four, he said, holding out the pircuit proudly. A missionary takesover a non-rowing type cannibal, leaves him there, and then the rowingcannibal takes over the other cannibal and leaves him there and— Not now, Grampa, Four said inattentively as he watched Fweep makingthe grand tour of the cabin. The raspberry sphere swept over a scattering of crumbs, engulfed them,absorbed them. Four looked at Joyce. Joyce was watching Fweep, too. Rat poison? Four asked. Joyce started guiltily. How did you know? There's no use trying to poison Fweep, Four said calmly. He's got noenzymes to act on, no nervous system to paralyze. He doesn't even usewhat he 'eats' on a molecular level at all. What level does he use? Junior wanted to know. Point the scintillation counter at him. Junior dug one of the counters out of the supply cabinet and aimed thepickup at Fweep. The counter began to hum. As Fweep approached, the humrose in pitch. As it passed, the hum dropped. Junior looked at the counter's dial. He's radioactive, all right. Notmuch, but enough. But where does he get the radioactive material? He uses ordinary matter, Four said. He must have used up the fewdeposits of natural radioactives a long time ago. He uses ordinary substances on an atomic level? Junior saidunbelievingly. Four nodded. And that 'skin' of his—whatever it is he uses forskin—is more efficient in stopping particle emissions than severalfeet of lead. Fred studied Fweep thoughtfully. Maybe we could feed him enoughenriched uranium from the pile to put him over the critical mass. And blow him up? I don't think it's possible, but even if it were, itmight be a trifle more than disastrous for us. Four giggled at thethought. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>Linear polarization is uncomfortable for him, is it? Grampa said.Makes you wonder how something like Fweep could ever develop. He's no more improbable than people, said Four. Less than some I've known, Grampa conceded. If he can eat anything, Reba said, why does he keep sweeping thecabin for dust and lint? He wants to be helpful, Four replied without hesitation, and he'slonely. After all, he added wistfully, he's never had any friends. How do you know all these things? Joyce asked from her doorway,excitement in her voice. Can you talk to it? Behind her, Fred said, Now, Joyce, you promised— But this is important, Joyce cut him off eagerly. Can you? Talk toit, I mean? Some, Four admitted. Have you asked it to let us go? Yes. Well? What did it say? He said he didn't want his friend to leave him. At the word, Fweep rolled swiftly across the floor and bounced intoFour's lap. It nestled against him lovingly and opened raspberry lips.Fwiend, it said. Well, now, Grampa said maliciously, his eye on Joyce, that's noproblem. We can just leave Four here with Fweep. In a voice filled with sanctimonious concern, Joyce said, That's quitea sacrifice to ask, but— Joyce! Reba cried, horrified. Grampa was joking, but you actuallymean it. Four is only a baby and yet you'd let him— Never mind, Reba, Four said evenly. It was just what I was going tosuggest myself. It's the one really logical solution. Fwiend, said Fweep gently. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone. Junior! said Joyce, shocked. Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work. I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug— Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's! Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair. Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet. Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on. I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him. Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do. That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints. That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing. He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Fweep, and what is his significance in the story?

Fweep is significant because he is the only creature living on Fweepland. He is a blob-shaped, raspberry-colored, gelatinous, transparent creature who sweeps up the debris that he runs over and engulfs it in his body. After he sweeps up particles, the outer inch or two of his body turns cloudy, then slowly clears. It seems he also absorbs substances from human contact since he follows a crooked path and hiccups after Grampa, who has been imbibing, pats him. He has a pseudo-mouth and makes the sound, or says the word, “Fweep.” His skin is impervious, and he has no enzymes or nervous system, so rat poison has no effect on him. Fweep immediately befriends Four. When Four explores Fweepland to identify its center of gravity, he discovers that it shifts because Fweep is a circular polarizer. Fweep is what makes the planet so heavy and prevents the flivver’s gravity polarizer from working so the family can leave. Fweep is slightly radioactive and likely immortal and incapable of reproduction since there is no need to reproduce. Because he has circular polarization, linear polarization is uncomfortable to him, so Fweep turned of the flivver’s gravity polarizer just before they landed. Fweep wants to be helpful, but he doesn’t want Four to leave since Four is the only friend he has ever had. Fweep was lonely before he met Four. Fweep will let the Peppergrass family leave only if Four stays with him. Fweep is responsible for the family’s landing on Fweepland and their predicament of being unable to leave.

Who is Four, and what is his significance in the story? [SEP] <s> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep><doc-sep>Grampa was a white-haired 90-year-old who could still go a fast roundor two with a man (or woman) half his age, but he had a habit oflapsing into tantrum when he got annoyed. Now, Grampa, Fred soothed, but his face was concerned. Fred, oncecalled Young Fred, was Grampa's only son. He was sixty and his hair hadbegun to gray at the temples. That landing was pretty rough, Junior. <doc-sep>Junior was Fred's only son. Because he was thirty-five and capableof exercising adult judgment and because he had the youngest adultreflexes, he sat in the pilot's chair, the control stick between hisknees, his thumb still over the Off-On button on top. I know it,Fred, he said, frowning. This world fooled me. It has a diameterless than that of Mercury and yet a gravitational pull as great asEarth. Grampa started to say something, but an 8-year-old boy looked up fromthe navigator's table beside the big computer and said, Well, gosh,Junior, that's why we picked this planet. We fed all the orbital datainto Abacus, and Abacus said that orbital perturbations indicated thatthe second planet was unusually heavy for its size. Then Fred said,'That looks like heavy metals', and you said, 'Maybe uranium—' That's enough, Four, Junior interrupted. Never mind what I said. Those were the Peppergrass men, four generations of them, lookingremarkably alike, although some vital element seemed to have dwindleduntil Four looked pale and thin-faced and wizened. And, Four, Reba said automatically, don't call your father 'Junior.'It sounds disrespectful. Reba was Four's mother and Junior's wife. On her own, she was ared-haired beauty with the loveliest figure this side of Antares. ThatJunior had won her was, to Grampa, the most hopeful thing he had evernoticed about the boy. But everybody calls Junior 'Junior,' Four complained. Besides, Fredis Junior's father and Junior calls him 'Fred.' That's different, Reba said. Grampa was still waving his puzzle circuit indignantly. See! Thepircuit was a flat box equipped with pushbuttons and thirteen slenderopenings in the top. One of the openings was lighted. That landingmade me push the wrong button and the dad-blasted thing beat me again. Stop picking on Junior, Joyce said sharply. She was Junior's motherand Fred's wife, still slim and handsome as she approached sixty, butsomehow ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. I'm surehe did the best he could. Anybody talks about gravitational pull, Grampa said, snorting,deserves anything anybody could say about him. There's no such thing,Junior. You ought to know by now that gravitation is the effect of thecurving of space-time around matter. Einstein proved that two hundredyears ago. Go back to your games, Grampa, Fred said impatiently. We've got workto do. <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow? It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare. That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it? You bought it, Grampa, Fred said. That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space? You, Grampa, Fred said. You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die? And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa! Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone. You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time! Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game? Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner. That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto— Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly. <doc-sep>Four shrugged his narrow shoulders and wandered to the view screen.Within it was the green horizon, curving noticeably. Four angled thepicture in toward the ship, sweeping through green, peaceful woodlandand plain and blue lake until he stared down into the meadow at theflivver's stern. Look! he said suddenly. This planet not only has flora—it hasfauna. He rushed to the air lock. Four! Reba called out warningly. It's all right, Reba, Four assured her. The air is within one percent of Earth-normal and the bio-analyzer can find no micro-organismsviable within the Terran spectrum. What about macro-organisms— Reba began, but the boy was gonealready. Reba's face was troubled. That boy! she said to Junior.Sometimes I think we've made a terrible mistake with him. He shouldhave friends, play-mates. He's more like a little old man than a boy. But Junior nodded meaningfully at Fred and disappeared into the chartroom. Fred followed casually. Then, as the door slid shut behind him,he asked impatiently. Well, what's all the mystery? No use bothering the others yet, Junior said, his face puzzled. Yousee, I didn't let the flivver drop those last few inches. The polarizerquit. Quit! That's not the worst. I tried to take it up again. The flivver—itwon't budge! <doc-sep>The thing was a featureless blob, a two-foot sphere of raspberrygelatin, but it was alive. It rocked back and forth in front of Four.It opened a raspberry-color pseudo-mouth and said plaintively, Fweep?Fweep? Joyce drew her chair farther back toward the wall, revulsion on herface. Four! Get that nasty thing out of here! <doc-sep><doc-sep>You mean Fweep? Four asked in astonishment. I mean that thing, whatever you call it. Joyce fluttered her handimpatiently. Get it out! Four's eyes widened farther. But Fweep's my friend. Nonsense! Joyce said sharply. Earthmen don't make friends withaliens. And that's nothing but a—a blob! Fweep? queried the raspberry lips. Fweep? If it's Four's friend, Reba said firmly, it can stay. If you don'tlike to be around it, Grammy, you can always go to your own room. Joyce stood up indignantly. Well! And don't call me 'Grammy!' It makesme sound as old as that old goat over there! She glared malignantlyat Grampa. If you'd rather have that blob than me—well! She sweptgrandly out of the central cabin and into one of the private rooms thatopened out from it. Fweep? asked the blob. Sure, Four said. Go ahead, fweep—I mean sweep. Swiftly the sphere rolled across the floor. Behind it was left anarrow path of sparkling clean tile. Grampa glanced warily at Joyce's door to make sure it was completelyclosed and then cocked a white eyebrow at Reba. Good for you, Reba!he said admiringly. For forty years now, I've wanted to do that. Neverhad the nerve. Why, thanks, Grampa, Reba said, surprised. I like you, gal. Never forget it. I like you, too, Grampa. If you'd been a few years younger, Juniorwould have had competition! You bet he would! Grampa leaned back and cackled. Then he leanedover confidentially toward Reba and whispered, Beats me why you evermarried a jerk like Junior, anyhow. Reba looked thoughtfully toward the airlock door. Maybe I sawsomething in him nobody else saw, the man he might become. He's beensubmerged in this family too long; he's still a child to all of youand to himself, too. Reba smiled at Grampa brilliantly. And maybe Ithought he might grow into a man like his grandfather. <doc-sep>Grampa turned red and looked quickly toward Four. The boy was staringintently at Fweep. What you doing, Four? Trying to figure out what Fweep does with the sweepings, Four saidabsently. The outer inch or two of his body gets cloudy and thenslowly clears. I think I'll try him with a bigger particle. That's the idea, Four. You'll be a Peppergrass yet. How about buildingme a pircuit? You get the other one figured out? It was easy, Grampa said breezily, once you understood theprinciple. The player who moved second could always win if he used theright strategy. Dividing the thirteen lights into three sections offour each— That's right, Four agreed. I can make you a new one by cannibalizingthe other pircuit, but I'll need a few extra parts. Grampa pushed the wall beside his chair and a drawer slid out of it. Inside were row after row of nipple-topped, flat-sided, flexiblefree-fall bottles and a battered cigar box. Thought you'd say that,he said, picking out the box. Help yourself. With the other hand, helifted out one of the bottles and took a long drag on it. Ahhh! hesighed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and carefully putthe bottle away. What is that stuff you drink, Grampa? Four asked. Tonic, boy. Keeps me young and frisky. Now about that pircuit— Did you ever work on Niccolò Tartaglia's puzzle about the three lovelybrides, the three jealous husbands, the river and the two-passengerrowboat? Yep, Grampa said. Too easy. Four thought a moment. There's a modern variation with threemissionaries and three cannibals. Same river, same rowboat and only oneof the cannibals can row. If the cannibals outnumber the missionaries— Sounds good, boy, Grampa said eagerly. Whip it up for me. Okay, Grampa. Four looked at Fweep again. The translucent sphere hadpaused at Grampa's feet. Grampa reached down to pat it. For an instant, his hand disappearedinto Fweep, and then the alien creature rolled away. This time its pathseemed crooked. Its gelatinous form jiggled. Hic! it said. <doc-sep>As if in response, the flivver vibrated. Grampa looked querulouslytoward the airlock. Flivver shouldn't shake like that. Not with thepolarizer turned on. The airlock door swung inward. Through the oval doorway walked Fred,followed closely by Junior. They were sweat-stained and weary,scintillation counters dangling heavily from their belts. Any luck? Reba asked brightly. Do we look it? Junior grumbled. Where's Joyce? asked Fred. Might as well get everybody in on this atonce. Joyce! The door to his wife's room opened instantly. Behind it, Joyce wasregal and slim. The pose was spoiled immediately by her avid question:Any uranium? Radium? Thorium? No, Fred said slowly, and no other heavy metals, either. There's afew low-grade iron deposits and that's it. Then what makes this planet so heavy? Reba asked. Junior shrugged helplessly and collapsed into a chair. Your guess isas good as anybody's. Then we've wasted another week on a worthless rock, Joyce complained.She turned savagely on Fred. This was going to make us all filthyrich. We were going to find radioactives and retire to Earth likebillionaires. And all we've done is spent a year of our lives in thiscramped old flivver—and we don't have many of them to spare! Sheglared venomously at Grampa. We've still got Fweepland, Four said solemnly. Fweepland? Reba repeated. This planet. It's not big, but it's fertile and it's harmless. Asreal estate, it's worth almost as much as if it were solid uranium. A good thing, too, Junior said glumly, because this looks like theend of our search. Short of a miracle, we'll spend the rest of ourlives right here—involuntary colonists. Joyce spun on him. You're joking! she screeched. I wish I were, Junior said. But the polarizer won't work. Eitherit's broken or there's something about the gravity around here thatjust won't polarize. It's these '23 models, Grampa put in disgustedly. They never wereany good. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses. The faces were still blank and unillumined. Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted. The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do. Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.' The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible. Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it. But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted. Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit. Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically. Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep rotated once on its axis, and Grampa loweredthe nippled bottle from his lips. He sighed. I got it figured out,Four, he said, holding out the pircuit proudly. A missionary takesover a non-rowing type cannibal, leaves him there, and then the rowingcannibal takes over the other cannibal and leaves him there and— Not now, Grampa, Four said inattentively as he watched Fweep makingthe grand tour of the cabin. The raspberry sphere swept over a scattering of crumbs, engulfed them,absorbed them. Four looked at Joyce. Joyce was watching Fweep, too. Rat poison? Four asked. Joyce started guiltily. How did you know? There's no use trying to poison Fweep, Four said calmly. He's got noenzymes to act on, no nervous system to paralyze. He doesn't even usewhat he 'eats' on a molecular level at all. What level does he use? Junior wanted to know. Point the scintillation counter at him. Junior dug one of the counters out of the supply cabinet and aimed thepickup at Fweep. The counter began to hum. As Fweep approached, the humrose in pitch. As it passed, the hum dropped. Junior looked at the counter's dial. He's radioactive, all right. Notmuch, but enough. But where does he get the radioactive material? He uses ordinary matter, Four said. He must have used up the fewdeposits of natural radioactives a long time ago. He uses ordinary substances on an atomic level? Junior saidunbelievingly. Four nodded. And that 'skin' of his—whatever it is he uses forskin—is more efficient in stopping particle emissions than severalfeet of lead. Fred studied Fweep thoughtfully. Maybe we could feed him enoughenriched uranium from the pile to put him over the critical mass. And blow him up? I don't think it's possible, but even if it were, itmight be a trifle more than disastrous for us. Four giggled at thethought. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>Linear polarization is uncomfortable for him, is it? Grampa said.Makes you wonder how something like Fweep could ever develop. He's no more improbable than people, said Four. Less than some I've known, Grampa conceded. If he can eat anything, Reba said, why does he keep sweeping thecabin for dust and lint? He wants to be helpful, Four replied without hesitation, and he'slonely. After all, he added wistfully, he's never had any friends. How do you know all these things? Joyce asked from her doorway,excitement in her voice. Can you talk to it? Behind her, Fred said, Now, Joyce, you promised— But this is important, Joyce cut him off eagerly. Can you? Talk toit, I mean? Some, Four admitted. Have you asked it to let us go? Yes. Well? What did it say? He said he didn't want his friend to leave him. At the word, Fweep rolled swiftly across the floor and bounced intoFour's lap. It nestled against him lovingly and opened raspberry lips.Fwiend, it said. Well, now, Grampa said maliciously, his eye on Joyce, that's noproblem. We can just leave Four here with Fweep. In a voice filled with sanctimonious concern, Joyce said, That's quitea sacrifice to ask, but— Joyce! Reba cried, horrified. Grampa was joking, but you actuallymean it. Four is only a baby and yet you'd let him— Never mind, Reba, Four said evenly. It was just what I was going tosuggest myself. It's the one really logical solution. Fwiend, said Fweep gently. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone. Junior! said Joyce, shocked. Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work. I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug— Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's! Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair. Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet. Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on. I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him. Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do. That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints. That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing. He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Four, and what is his significance in the story?

Four is the highly intelligent, eight-year-old youngest member of the Peppergrass family. Although he is the youngest, he is the one who figures out the answers to why Fweepland is so heavy and how Fweep disables the flivver’s gravity polarizer. As a child, he is more impulsive than the adults, for example rushing outside to meet Fweep when the others stay back, but this enables him to solve problems and answer questions faster. On the other hand, his lack of experience prevents him from solving the ultimate problem of how to leave the planet, but his riddles and comment that creating a puzzle means you already know the solution trigger an idea for Grampa that may help solve the family’s dilemma. By befriending Fweep so readily, Four discovers that Fweep is responsible for the planet’s “fake” heaviness and the failure of the flivver’s gravity polarizer. He also studies Fweep and determines his significant characteristics such as his impervious skin, lack of enzymes, and radioactivity. While the adults discuss and bemoan the fact that they cannot leave Fweepland, Four goes out and tries to identify the planet’s center of gravity and therefore discovers that Fweep affects the planet’s gravity and that he is a circular polarizer. At the end of the story, Junior even relies on Four to find out why the computer won’t work. Not only is Four a problem solver and investigator, but he is also logical and selfless. He realizes that Fweep doesn’t want him to leave and is willing to stay behind with Fweep so that the rest of his family can leave.

Describe Joyce and her role in the story. [SEP] <s> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep><doc-sep>Grampa was a white-haired 90-year-old who could still go a fast roundor two with a man (or woman) half his age, but he had a habit oflapsing into tantrum when he got annoyed. Now, Grampa, Fred soothed, but his face was concerned. Fred, oncecalled Young Fred, was Grampa's only son. He was sixty and his hair hadbegun to gray at the temples. That landing was pretty rough, Junior. <doc-sep>Junior was Fred's only son. Because he was thirty-five and capableof exercising adult judgment and because he had the youngest adultreflexes, he sat in the pilot's chair, the control stick between hisknees, his thumb still over the Off-On button on top. I know it,Fred, he said, frowning. This world fooled me. It has a diameterless than that of Mercury and yet a gravitational pull as great asEarth. Grampa started to say something, but an 8-year-old boy looked up fromthe navigator's table beside the big computer and said, Well, gosh,Junior, that's why we picked this planet. We fed all the orbital datainto Abacus, and Abacus said that orbital perturbations indicated thatthe second planet was unusually heavy for its size. Then Fred said,'That looks like heavy metals', and you said, 'Maybe uranium—' That's enough, Four, Junior interrupted. Never mind what I said. Those were the Peppergrass men, four generations of them, lookingremarkably alike, although some vital element seemed to have dwindleduntil Four looked pale and thin-faced and wizened. And, Four, Reba said automatically, don't call your father 'Junior.'It sounds disrespectful. Reba was Four's mother and Junior's wife. On her own, she was ared-haired beauty with the loveliest figure this side of Antares. ThatJunior had won her was, to Grampa, the most hopeful thing he had evernoticed about the boy. But everybody calls Junior 'Junior,' Four complained. Besides, Fredis Junior's father and Junior calls him 'Fred.' That's different, Reba said. Grampa was still waving his puzzle circuit indignantly. See! Thepircuit was a flat box equipped with pushbuttons and thirteen slenderopenings in the top. One of the openings was lighted. That landingmade me push the wrong button and the dad-blasted thing beat me again. Stop picking on Junior, Joyce said sharply. She was Junior's motherand Fred's wife, still slim and handsome as she approached sixty, butsomehow ice water had replaced the warm blood in her veins. I'm surehe did the best he could. Anybody talks about gravitational pull, Grampa said, snorting,deserves anything anybody could say about him. There's no such thing,Junior. You ought to know by now that gravitation is the effect of thecurving of space-time around matter. Einstein proved that two hundredyears ago. Go back to your games, Grampa, Fred said impatiently. We've got workto do. <doc-sep>Grampa knitted his bushy, white eyebrows and petulantly pushed the lastbutton on his pircuit. The last light went out. You've got work todo, have you? Whose flivver do you think this is, anyhow? It belongs to all of us, Four said shrilly. You gave us all a sixthshare. That's right, Four, Grampa muttered, so I did. But whose moneybought it? You bought it, Grampa, Fred said. That's right! And who invented the gravity polarizer and the spaceflivver? Eh? Who made possible this gallivanting all over space? You, Grampa, Fred said. You bet! And who made one hundred million dollars out of it that therest of you vultures are just hanging around to gobble up when I die? And who spent it all trying to invent perpetual motion machines andlongevity pills, Joyce said bitterly, and fixed it so we'd have togo searching for uranium and habitable worlds all through this deadlygalaxy? You, Grampa! Well, now, Grampa protested, I got a little put away yet. You'll besorry when I'm dead and gone. You're never going to die, Grampa, Joyce said harshly. Justbefore we left, you bought a hundred-year contract with thatLife-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Well, now, said Grampa, blinking, how'd you find out about that?Well, now! In confusion, he turned back to the pircuit and jabbed abutton. Thirteen slim lights sprang on. I'll get you this time! Four stretched and stood up. He looked curiously into the corner by thecomputer where Grampa's chair stood. You brought that pircuit fromEarth, didn't you? What's the game? Grampa looked up, obviously relieved to drop his act of intenseconcentration. I'll tell you, boy. You play against the pircuit,taking turns, and you can put out one, two or three lights. The playerwho makes the other one turn out the last light is the winner. That's simple, Four said without hesitation. The winning strategy isto— Don't be a kibitzer! Grampa snapped. When I need help, I'll askfor it. No dad-blamed machine is gonna outthink Grampa! He snortedindignantly. <doc-sep>Four shrugged his narrow shoulders and wandered to the view screen.Within it was the green horizon, curving noticeably. Four angled thepicture in toward the ship, sweeping through green, peaceful woodlandand plain and blue lake until he stared down into the meadow at theflivver's stern. Look! he said suddenly. This planet not only has flora—it hasfauna. He rushed to the air lock. Four! Reba called out warningly. It's all right, Reba, Four assured her. The air is within one percent of Earth-normal and the bio-analyzer can find no micro-organismsviable within the Terran spectrum. What about macro-organisms— Reba began, but the boy was gonealready. Reba's face was troubled. That boy! she said to Junior.Sometimes I think we've made a terrible mistake with him. He shouldhave friends, play-mates. He's more like a little old man than a boy. But Junior nodded meaningfully at Fred and disappeared into the chartroom. Fred followed casually. Then, as the door slid shut behind him,he asked impatiently. Well, what's all the mystery? No use bothering the others yet, Junior said, his face puzzled. Yousee, I didn't let the flivver drop those last few inches. The polarizerquit. Quit! That's not the worst. I tried to take it up again. The flivver—itwon't budge! <doc-sep>The thing was a featureless blob, a two-foot sphere of raspberrygelatin, but it was alive. It rocked back and forth in front of Four.It opened a raspberry-color pseudo-mouth and said plaintively, Fweep?Fweep? Joyce drew her chair farther back toward the wall, revulsion on herface. Four! Get that nasty thing out of here! <doc-sep><doc-sep>You mean Fweep? Four asked in astonishment. I mean that thing, whatever you call it. Joyce fluttered her handimpatiently. Get it out! Four's eyes widened farther. But Fweep's my friend. Nonsense! Joyce said sharply. Earthmen don't make friends withaliens. And that's nothing but a—a blob! Fweep? queried the raspberry lips. Fweep? If it's Four's friend, Reba said firmly, it can stay. If you don'tlike to be around it, Grammy, you can always go to your own room. Joyce stood up indignantly. Well! And don't call me 'Grammy!' It makesme sound as old as that old goat over there! She glared malignantlyat Grampa. If you'd rather have that blob than me—well! She sweptgrandly out of the central cabin and into one of the private rooms thatopened out from it. Fweep? asked the blob. Sure, Four said. Go ahead, fweep—I mean sweep. Swiftly the sphere rolled across the floor. Behind it was left anarrow path of sparkling clean tile. Grampa glanced warily at Joyce's door to make sure it was completelyclosed and then cocked a white eyebrow at Reba. Good for you, Reba!he said admiringly. For forty years now, I've wanted to do that. Neverhad the nerve. Why, thanks, Grampa, Reba said, surprised. I like you, gal. Never forget it. I like you, too, Grampa. If you'd been a few years younger, Juniorwould have had competition! You bet he would! Grampa leaned back and cackled. Then he leanedover confidentially toward Reba and whispered, Beats me why you evermarried a jerk like Junior, anyhow. Reba looked thoughtfully toward the airlock door. Maybe I sawsomething in him nobody else saw, the man he might become. He's beensubmerged in this family too long; he's still a child to all of youand to himself, too. Reba smiled at Grampa brilliantly. And maybe Ithought he might grow into a man like his grandfather. <doc-sep>Grampa turned red and looked quickly toward Four. The boy was staringintently at Fweep. What you doing, Four? Trying to figure out what Fweep does with the sweepings, Four saidabsently. The outer inch or two of his body gets cloudy and thenslowly clears. I think I'll try him with a bigger particle. That's the idea, Four. You'll be a Peppergrass yet. How about buildingme a pircuit? You get the other one figured out? It was easy, Grampa said breezily, once you understood theprinciple. The player who moved second could always win if he used theright strategy. Dividing the thirteen lights into three sections offour each— That's right, Four agreed. I can make you a new one by cannibalizingthe other pircuit, but I'll need a few extra parts. Grampa pushed the wall beside his chair and a drawer slid out of it. Inside were row after row of nipple-topped, flat-sided, flexiblefree-fall bottles and a battered cigar box. Thought you'd say that,he said, picking out the box. Help yourself. With the other hand, helifted out one of the bottles and took a long drag on it. Ahhh! hesighed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and carefully putthe bottle away. What is that stuff you drink, Grampa? Four asked. Tonic, boy. Keeps me young and frisky. Now about that pircuit— Did you ever work on Niccolò Tartaglia's puzzle about the three lovelybrides, the three jealous husbands, the river and the two-passengerrowboat? Yep, Grampa said. Too easy. Four thought a moment. There's a modern variation with threemissionaries and three cannibals. Same river, same rowboat and only oneof the cannibals can row. If the cannibals outnumber the missionaries— Sounds good, boy, Grampa said eagerly. Whip it up for me. Okay, Grampa. Four looked at Fweep again. The translucent sphere hadpaused at Grampa's feet. Grampa reached down to pat it. For an instant, his hand disappearedinto Fweep, and then the alien creature rolled away. This time its pathseemed crooked. Its gelatinous form jiggled. Hic! it said. <doc-sep>As if in response, the flivver vibrated. Grampa looked querulouslytoward the airlock. Flivver shouldn't shake like that. Not with thepolarizer turned on. The airlock door swung inward. Through the oval doorway walked Fred,followed closely by Junior. They were sweat-stained and weary,scintillation counters dangling heavily from their belts. Any luck? Reba asked brightly. Do we look it? Junior grumbled. Where's Joyce? asked Fred. Might as well get everybody in on this atonce. Joyce! The door to his wife's room opened instantly. Behind it, Joyce wasregal and slim. The pose was spoiled immediately by her avid question:Any uranium? Radium? Thorium? No, Fred said slowly, and no other heavy metals, either. There's afew low-grade iron deposits and that's it. Then what makes this planet so heavy? Reba asked. Junior shrugged helplessly and collapsed into a chair. Your guess isas good as anybody's. Then we've wasted another week on a worthless rock, Joyce complained.She turned savagely on Fred. This was going to make us all filthyrich. We were going to find radioactives and retire to Earth likebillionaires. And all we've done is spent a year of our lives in thiscramped old flivver—and we don't have many of them to spare! Sheglared venomously at Grampa. We've still got Fweepland, Four said solemnly. Fweepland? Reba repeated. This planet. It's not big, but it's fertile and it's harmless. Asreal estate, it's worth almost as much as if it were solid uranium. A good thing, too, Junior said glumly, because this looks like theend of our search. Short of a miracle, we'll spend the rest of ourlives right here—involuntary colonists. Joyce spun on him. You're joking! she screeched. I wish I were, Junior said. But the polarizer won't work. Eitherit's broken or there's something about the gravity around here thatjust won't polarize. It's these '23 models, Grampa put in disgustedly. They never wereany good. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned slowly on its axis. The orange sun set androse again and stared down once more at the meadow where the improbablespaceship rested on its improbable stern. The sixteen Earth hours thatthe rotation had taken had changed nothing inside the ship, either. Grampa looked up from his pircuit and said, If I were you, Junior, Iwould take a good look at the TV repairman when we get back to Earth. If we get back to Earth, he amended. You can't be Four's father.All over the Universe, gravity is the same, and if it's gravity, thepolarizer will polarize it. That's just supposition, Junior said stubbornly. The fact is, itisn't because it doesn't. Q.E.D. Maybe the polarizer is broken, Fred suggested. Grampa snorted. Broken-shmoken. Nothing to break, Young Fred. Just afew coils of copper wire and they're all right. We checked. We knowthe power plant is working: the lights are on, the air and waterrecirculation systems are going, the food resynthesizer is okay. And,anyway, the polarizer could work from the storage battery if it had to. Then it goes deeper, Junior insisted. It goes right to the principleof polarization itself. For some reason, it doesn't work here. Why?Before we can discover the answer to that, we'll have to know moreabout polarization itself. How does it work, Grampa? Grampa gave him a sarcastic grin. Now you're curious, eh? Couldn'tbe bothered with Grampa's invention before. Oh, no! Too busy. Acceptwithout question the blessings that the Good Lord provideth— Let's not get up on any pulpits, Fred growled. Come on, Grampa,what's the theory behind polarization? Grampa looked at the four faces staring at him hopefully and thejeering grin turned to a smile. Well, he said, at last. You knowhow light is polarized, eh? The smile faded. No, I guess you don't. <doc-sep>He cleared his throat professorially. Well, now, in ordinary lightthe vibrations are perpendicular to the ray in all directions. Whenlight is polarized by passing through crystals or by reflection orrefraction at non-metallic surfaces, the paths of the vibrations arestill perpendicular to the ray, but they're in straight lines, circlesor ellipses. The faces were still blank and unillumined. Gravity is similar to light, he pressed on. In the absence ofmatter, gravity is non-polarized. Matter polarizes gravity in a circlearound itself. That's how we've always known it until the invention ofspaceships and later the polarizer. The polarizer polarizes gravityinto a straight line. That makes the ship take off and continueaccelerating until the polarizer is shut off or its angle is shifted. The faces looked at him silently. Finally Joyce could endure it nolonger. That's just nonsense! You all know it. Grampa's no genius.He's just a tinkerer. One day he happened to tinker out the polarizer.He doesn't know how it works any more than I do. Now wait a minute! Grampa protested. That's not fair. MaybeI didn't figure out the theory myself, but I read everything thescientists ever wrote about it. Wanted to know myself what made theblamed thing work. What I told you is what the scientists said, nearas I remember. Now me—I'm like Edison. I do it and let everybody elseworry over 'why.' The only thing you ever did was the polarizer, Joyce snapped.And then you spent everything you got from it on those foolperpetual-motion machines and those crazy longevity schemes when anymoron would know they were impossible. Grampa squinted at her sagely. That's what they said about the gravitypolarizer before I invented it. But you don't really know why it works, Junior persisted. Well, no, Grampa admitted. Actually I was just fiddling around withsome coils when one of them took off. Went right through the ceiling,dragging a battery behind it. I guess it's still going. Ought to be outnear the Horsehead Nebula by now. Luckily, I remembered how I'd woundit. Why won't the ship work then, if you know so much? Joyce demandedironically. Well, now, Grampa said in bafflement, it rightly should, you know. <doc-sep>We're stuck, Reba said softly. We might as well admit it. All we cando is set the transmitter to send out an automatic distress call— Which, Joyce interrupted, might get picked up in a few centuries. And make the best of what we've got, Reba went on, unheeding. If welook at it the right way, it's quite a lot. A beautiful, fertile world.Earth gravity. The flivver—even if the polarizer won't work, there'sthe resynthesizer; it will keep us in food and clothes for years. Bythen, we should have a good-sized community built up, because out herewe won't have to stop with one child. We can have all the babies wewant. You know the law: one child per couple, Joyce reminded her frigidly.You can condemn yourself to exile from civilization if you wish. Notme. Junior frowned at his wife. I believe you're actually glad ithappened. I could think of worse things, Reba said. I like your spunk, Reb, Grampa muttered. Speaking of children, Junior said, where's Four? Here. Four came through the airlock and trudged across the room,carrying a curious contraption made of tripod legs supporting asmall box from which dangled a plumb bob. Behind Four, like a round,raspberry shadow, rolled Fweep. Fweep? it queried hopefully. Not now, said Four. Where've you been? Reba asked anxiously. What've you been doing? I've been all over Fweepland, Four said wearily, trying to locateits center of gravity. Well? Fred prompted. It shifts. That's impossible, said Junior. Not for Fweep, Four replied. What do you mean by that? Joyce suspiciously asked. It shifted, Four explained patiently, because Fweep kept followingme. Fweep? Junior repeated stupidly. Fweep? Fweep said eagerly. He's why the flivver won't work. What Grampa invented was a linearpolarizer. Fweep is a circular polarizer. He's what makes this planetso heavy. He's why we can't leave. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep rotated once on its axis, and Grampa loweredthe nippled bottle from his lips. He sighed. I got it figured out,Four, he said, holding out the pircuit proudly. A missionary takesover a non-rowing type cannibal, leaves him there, and then the rowingcannibal takes over the other cannibal and leaves him there and— Not now, Grampa, Four said inattentively as he watched Fweep makingthe grand tour of the cabin. The raspberry sphere swept over a scattering of crumbs, engulfed them,absorbed them. Four looked at Joyce. Joyce was watching Fweep, too. Rat poison? Four asked. Joyce started guiltily. How did you know? There's no use trying to poison Fweep, Four said calmly. He's got noenzymes to act on, no nervous system to paralyze. He doesn't even usewhat he 'eats' on a molecular level at all. What level does he use? Junior wanted to know. Point the scintillation counter at him. Junior dug one of the counters out of the supply cabinet and aimed thepickup at Fweep. The counter began to hum. As Fweep approached, the humrose in pitch. As it passed, the hum dropped. Junior looked at the counter's dial. He's radioactive, all right. Notmuch, but enough. But where does he get the radioactive material? He uses ordinary matter, Four said. He must have used up the fewdeposits of natural radioactives a long time ago. He uses ordinary substances on an atomic level? Junior saidunbelievingly. Four nodded. And that 'skin' of his—whatever it is he uses forskin—is more efficient in stopping particle emissions than severalfeet of lead. Fred studied Fweep thoughtfully. Maybe we could feed him enoughenriched uranium from the pile to put him over the critical mass. And blow him up? I don't think it's possible, but even if it were, itmight be a trifle more than disastrous for us. Four giggled at thethought. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep>Reba looked at Fweep kindly. We can thank the little fellow for that,anyway. I thank him for nothing, Joyce snapped. He lured us down here bymaking us think the planet had heavy metals and I want him to let us go immediately ! Fred turned impatiently on his wife. Well, try making him understand!And if you can make him understand what you want him to do, try makinghim do it! Joyce looked at Fred with startled eyes. Fred! she said in a high,shocked voice and turned blindly toward her room. Grampa lowered his bottle and smacked his lips. Well, boy, he said toFred, I thought you'd never do that. Didn't think you had it in you. Fred stood up apologetically. I'd better go calm her down, hemuttered, and walked quickly after Joyce. Give her one for me! Grampa called. Fred's shoulders twitched as the door closed behind him. From the roomcame the filtered sound of high-pitched voices rising and falling likesome reedy folk music. Makes you think, doesn't it? Grampa said, looking at Fweep benignly.Maybe the whole theory of gravitation is cockeyed. Maybe there's aFweep for every planet and sun, big and little, polarizing the gravityin circles, and the matter business is not a cause but a result. What I can't understand, Junior said thoughtfully, is why thepolarizer worked for a little while when we landed—long enough to keepus from being squashed—and then quit. Fweep didn't recognize it immediately, didn't know what it was orwhere it came from, Four explained. All he knew was he didn't likelinear polarization and he neutralized it as soon as he could. That'swhen we dropped. <doc-sep>Linear polarization is uncomfortable for him, is it? Grampa said.Makes you wonder how something like Fweep could ever develop. He's no more improbable than people, said Four. Less than some I've known, Grampa conceded. If he can eat anything, Reba said, why does he keep sweeping thecabin for dust and lint? He wants to be helpful, Four replied without hesitation, and he'slonely. After all, he added wistfully, he's never had any friends. How do you know all these things? Joyce asked from her doorway,excitement in her voice. Can you talk to it? Behind her, Fred said, Now, Joyce, you promised— But this is important, Joyce cut him off eagerly. Can you? Talk toit, I mean? Some, Four admitted. Have you asked it to let us go? Yes. Well? What did it say? He said he didn't want his friend to leave him. At the word, Fweep rolled swiftly across the floor and bounced intoFour's lap. It nestled against him lovingly and opened raspberry lips.Fwiend, it said. Well, now, Grampa said maliciously, his eye on Joyce, that's noproblem. We can just leave Four here with Fweep. In a voice filled with sanctimonious concern, Joyce said, That's quitea sacrifice to ask, but— Joyce! Reba cried, horrified. Grampa was joking, but you actuallymean it. Four is only a baby and yet you'd let him— Never mind, Reba, Four said evenly. It was just what I was going tosuggest myself. It's the one really logical solution. Fwiend, said Fweep gently. <doc-sep>The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself infront of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboardswearing in a steady monotone. Junior! said Joyce, shocked. Junior swung around impatiently. Sorry, Mother, but this damned thingwon't work. I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn'texpect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work,it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug— Mother! Junior warned. We decided not to talk about it any more.Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr.It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave thisplanet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's! Well! Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair. Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. Junior,I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe yougot the makings of a Peppergrass yet. Junior turned back to the keyboard and studied it, his chin in hishand. It's just a matter of stating the problem in terms the computercan work on. I take it all back, said Grampa. That computer won't help you withthis problem, Junior. This ain't a long, complicated calculation; it'sa simple problem in logic. It's a pircuit problem, like the one aboutthe cannibals and the missionaries. We can't leave Fweepland becauseFweep won't let our polarizer work. He won't let our polarizer workbecause he doesn't like gravity that's polarized in a straight line,and he don't want Four to leave him. Now Fweep ain't the brightest creature in the Universe, so he can'tunderstand why we're so gosh-fired eager to leave. And as long as he'sgot Four, he's happy. Why should he make himself unhappy? As a favorto Four, he'd let us leave—if we'd leave Four here with him, which weain't gonna do. That's the problem. All we got to do is figure out the answer. No usemaking a pircuit, because a puzzle circuit is just a miniature computerwith the solution built in; if you can build the pircuit, you'vealready solved the problem. And if you can state the problem to Abacus,you've already got the answer. All you want from it then is decimalpoints. That may be, Junior said stubbornly, but I still want to know whythis computer won't work. It won't even do simple arithmetic! Where'sFour? He's the only one who understands this thing. He's outside, playing in the meadow with Fweep, Reba said, her voicesoft. No, here they come now. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe Joyce and her role in the story.

Joyce is Junior’s mother and Fred’s wife and is nearly sixty years old; she is still in good shape: slender, elegant, and attractive. However, she is described as having ice water instead of blood in her veins because she is such a cold-hearted woman much of the time. Joyce creates most of the tension in the story; she is frequently at odds with Grampa and says whatever she thinks, no matter how rude or hurtful it is. She presents as a spoiled, self-centered woman who only wants lots of money. Grampa’s inventions made him a multimillionaire, but she accuses him of wasting the money on new inventions and making it so that they had to travel the galaxy searching for uranium and other habitable worlds. When Grampa tells her he has set some money aside and she’ll be sorry when he’s dead, she responds that he’ll never die. And she knows he bought a hundred-year contract with the Life-Begins-At-Ninety longevity company. Joyce is eager to get her hands on some of Grampa’s money and resents that he is using some of it to carry out his research. When Four brings Fweep aboard the flivver, she is thoroughly disgusted and insists he take it back out; when Reba stands up for Four and Fweep and calls Joyce Grammy, Joyce is furious and goes into her private room. Later, she even tries to poison Fweep by leaving rat poison on the floor. When the men return from checking Fweepland for heavy metals or radioactive elements, she eagerly comes out of her room and immediately asks if they had found any uranium, radium, or thorium. Their negative answer again draws her ire and shows her greed. She complains to Fred that they are all supposed to get filthy rich finding radioactives and retire on Earth as billionaires. She resents the year they have spent looking for radioactives. When she learns that Fweep is the reason they can’t leave the planet, her first reaction is to kill him, and when she learns that killing him isn’t possible, she readily and seriously agrees to Grampa’s joke that they should leave Four behind so the rest of them can leave. Again, Joyce only wants what is best for her, and she is ready to kill or abandon anyone who stands in her way.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>And now I had yet another grudge against this blasted spy. Whichreminded me again of Linda. From the looks of things, I wasn't ever going to get to her place. By now she was probably in mourning for meand might even have the Sanitation Staff searching for my remains. As I made the chico, he asked me questions. My name first, and then,What do you do for a living? I thought fast. I'm an ore-sled dispatcher, I said. That was a lie,of course, but I'd heard enough about ore-sled dispatching from Lindato be able to maintain the fiction should he question me further aboutit. Actually, I was a gymnast instructor. The subjects I taught includedwrestling, judo and karati—talents I would prefer to disclose to himin my own fashion, when the time came. He was quiet for a moment. What about radiation level on theore-sleds? I had no idea what he was talking about, and admitted as much. When they come back, he said. How much radiation do they pick up?Don't you people ever test them? Of course not, I told him. I was on secure ground now, with Linda'sinformation to guide me. All radiation is cleared from the sleds andtheir cargo before they're brought into the building. I know that, he said impatiently. But don't you ever check thembefore de-radiating them? No. Why should we? To find out how far the radiation level outside has dropped. For what? Who cares about that? He frowned bitterly. The same answer, he muttered, more to himselfthan to me. The same answer every time. You people have crawled intoyour caves and you're ready to stay in them forever. I looked around at my apartment. Rather a well-appointed cave, I toldhim. But a cave nevertheless. He leaned toward me, his eyes gleaming witha fanatical flame. Don't you ever wish to get Outside? Incredible! I nearly poured boiling water all over myself. Outside? Ofcourse not! The same thing, he grumbled, over and over again. Always the samestupidity. Listen, you! Do you realize how long it took man to get outof the caves? The long slow painful creep of progress, for millennia,before he ever made that first step from the cave? I have no idea, I told him. I'll tell you this, he said belligerently. A lot longer than ittook for him to turn around and go right back into the cave again. Hestarted pacing the floor, waving the gun around in an agitated fashionas he talked. Is this the natural life of man? It is not. Is thiseven a desirable life for man? It is definitely not. He spun backto face me, pointing the gun at me again, but this time he pointedit as though it were a finger, not a gun. Listen, you, he snapped.Man was progressing. For all his stupidities and excesses, he wasgrowing up. His dreams were getting bigger and grander and better allthe time. He was planning to tackle space ! The moon first, and thenthe planets, and finally the stars. The whole universe was out there,waiting to be plucked like an apple from a tank. And Man was reachingout for it. He glared as though daring me to doubt it. <doc-sep>I decided that this man was doubly dangerous. Not only was he a spy,he was also a lunatic. So I had two reasons for humoring him. I noddedpolitely. So what happened? he demanded, and immediately answered himself.I'll tell you what happened! Just as he was about to make that firstgiant step, Man got a hotfoot. That's all it was, just a littlehotfoot. So what did Man do? I'll tell you what he did. He turnedaround and he ran all the way back to the cave he started from, histail between his legs. That's what he did! To say that all of this was incomprehensible would be an extremeunderstatement. I fulfilled my obligation to this insane dialogue bysaying, Here's your coffee. Put it on the table, he said, switching instantly from raving maniacto watchful spy. I put it on the table. He drank deep, then carried the cup across theroom and sat down in my favorite chair. He studied me narrowly, andsuddenly said, What did they tell you I was? A spy? Of course, I said. He grinned bitterly, with one side of his mouth. Of course. The damnfools! Spy! What do you suppose I'm going to spy on? He asked the question so violently and urgently that I knew I had toanswer quickly and well, or the maniac would return. I—I wouldn'tknow, exactly, I stammered. Military equipment, I suppose. Military equipment? What military equipment? Your Army is suppliedwith uniforms, whistles and hand guns, and that's about it. The defenses— I started. The defenses, he interrupted me, are non-existent. If you mean therocket launchers on the roof, they're rusted through with age. And whatother defenses are there? None. If you say so, I replied stiffly. The Army claimed that we hadadequate defense equipment. I chose to believe the Army over an enemyspy. Your people send out spies, too, don't they? he demanded. Well, of course. And what are they supposed to spy on? Well— It was such a pointless question, it seemed silly to evenanswer it. They're supposed to look for indications of an attack byone of the other projects. And do they find any indications, ever? I'm sure I don't know, I told him frostily. That would be classifiedinformation. You bet it would, he said, with malicious glee. All right, if that'swhat your spies are doing, and if I'm a spy, then it follows thatI'm doing the same thing, right? I don't follow you, I admitted. If I'm a spy, he said impatiently, then I'm supposed to look forindications of an attack by you people on my Project. I shrugged. If that's your job, I said, then that's your job. He got suddenly red-faced, and jumped to his feet. That's not myjob, you blatant idiot! he shouted. I'm not a spy! If I were a spy, then that would be my job! <doc-sep>The maniac had returned, in full force. All right, I said hastily.All right, whatever you say. He glowered at me a moment longer, then shouted, Bah! and droppedback into the chair. He breathed rather heavily for a while, glaring at the floor, thenlooked at me again. All right, listen. What if I were to tell you thatI had found indications that you people were planning to attack myProject? I stared at him. That's impossible! I cried. We aren't planning toattack anybody! We just want to be left in peace! How do I know that? he demanded. It's the truth! What would we want to attack anybody for? Ah hah! He sat forward, tensed, pointing the gun at me like a fingeragain. Now, then, he said. If you know it doesn't make any sense forthis Project to attack any other project, then why in the world shouldyou think they might see some advantage in attacking you ? I shook my head, dumbfounded. I can't answer a question like that, Isaid. How do I know what they're thinking? They're human beings, aren't they? he cried. Like you? Like me? Likeall the other people in this mausoleum? Now, wait a minute— No! he shouted. You wait a minute! I want to tell you something. Youthink I'm a spy. That blundering Army of yours thinks I'm a spy. Thatfathead who turned me in thinks I'm a spy. But I'm not a spy, and I'mgoing to tell you what I am. I waited, looking as attentive as possible. I come, he said, from a Project about eighty miles north of here.I came here by foot, without any sort of radiation shield at all toprotect me. The maniac was back. I didn't say a word. I didn't want to set off theviolence that was so obviously in this lunatic. The radiation level, he went on, is way down. It's practically aslow as it was before the Atom War. I don't know how long it's beenthat low, but I would guess about ten years, at the very least. Heleaned forward again, urgent and serious. The world is safe out therenow. Man can come back out of the cave again. He can start buildingthe dreams again. And this time he can build better, because he hasthe horrible example of the recent past to guide him away from thepitfalls. There's no need any longer for the Projects. And that was like saying there's no need any longer for stomachs, but Ididn't say so. I didn't say anything at all. I'm a trained atomic engineer, he went on. In my project, I workedon the reactor. Theoretically, I believed that there was a chance theradiation Outside was lessening by now, though we had no idea exactlyhow much radiation had been released by the Atom War. But I wantedto test the theory, and the Commission wouldn't let me. They claimedpublic safety, but I knew better. If the Outside were safe and theProjects were no longer needed, then the Commission was out of a job,and they knew it. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

It was one of those days when everything that could go wrong, goes wrong. Edmund Rice, the main character, has decided to propose to his girlfriend, Linda on the day when the story takes place, but at breakfast, he broke his egg yolk; he had a stuck zipper; he had feedback in the aircon exhaust; and his window stuck at full transparency. On top of all that, the elevator is late. Edmund’s girlfriend is a dispatcher for ore-sled robots; when one doesn’t return on time, they know that the robot has been been captured and therefore blown itself up. As a result, Linda is a real stickler for punctuality because if Edmund is late, as he was once before, she goes into hysterics thinking that something horrible has happened to him. When the elevator doesn’t come, Edmund goes back to his apartment to call Linda to let her know why he will be late, but she has set her phone not to accept calls since she was expecting Edmund to come propose to her. Edmund decides to complain to the Transit Staff, who give him the official statement that the elevator is disconnected, but when Edmund explains that the late elevator is ruining his life, the operator takes pity on him and secretly tells him there is a spy on the elevator who won’t get off, and the Army might have to starve him to make him exit. Finally, at 10:15, Edmund thinks of taking the stairs, but when he does, the spy intercepts him, forcing him at gunpoint back to Edmund’s apartment. At this point, Edmund gives up on reaching Linda. The spy tells Edmund he doesn’t want to hurt him and begins a conversation, asking what Edmund does for a living. Because Edmund doesn’t want the spy to know that he teaches gymnastics and knows wrestling, judo, and karati, he lies and tells him he is an ore-sled operator, figuring he can pull off the ruse since he knows a lot about Linda’s job. This piques the spy’s interest, and he asks what Edmund knows about the radiation level of the ore-sleds when they return. Edmund says they don’t check for radiation before de-radiating the sled; there’s no point. The spy is irritated that Edmund doesn’t even care about the radiation level outside the Project and compares the Projects to caves. The spy goes on to tell Edmund he isn’t a spy, that he is an atomic engineer from a Project 80 miles north. He traveled to Edmund’s Project on foot without any kind of radiation shield to prove that the radiation level is so low that it is safe for people to leaves the Projects. He is trying to get the word out, but people don’t believe him because their Commissions tell them the radiation level is still high and that it isn’t safe to go outside. Edmund thinks the man is a lunatic and doesn’t believe any of the ludicrous claims he makes.

Who is Linda, and what is her significance in the story? [SEP] <s> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>And now I had yet another grudge against this blasted spy. Whichreminded me again of Linda. From the looks of things, I wasn't ever going to get to her place. By now she was probably in mourning for meand might even have the Sanitation Staff searching for my remains. As I made the chico, he asked me questions. My name first, and then,What do you do for a living? I thought fast. I'm an ore-sled dispatcher, I said. That was a lie,of course, but I'd heard enough about ore-sled dispatching from Lindato be able to maintain the fiction should he question me further aboutit. Actually, I was a gymnast instructor. The subjects I taught includedwrestling, judo and karati—talents I would prefer to disclose to himin my own fashion, when the time came. He was quiet for a moment. What about radiation level on theore-sleds? I had no idea what he was talking about, and admitted as much. When they come back, he said. How much radiation do they pick up?Don't you people ever test them? Of course not, I told him. I was on secure ground now, with Linda'sinformation to guide me. All radiation is cleared from the sleds andtheir cargo before they're brought into the building. I know that, he said impatiently. But don't you ever check thembefore de-radiating them? No. Why should we? To find out how far the radiation level outside has dropped. For what? Who cares about that? He frowned bitterly. The same answer, he muttered, more to himselfthan to me. The same answer every time. You people have crawled intoyour caves and you're ready to stay in them forever. I looked around at my apartment. Rather a well-appointed cave, I toldhim. But a cave nevertheless. He leaned toward me, his eyes gleaming witha fanatical flame. Don't you ever wish to get Outside? Incredible! I nearly poured boiling water all over myself. Outside? Ofcourse not! The same thing, he grumbled, over and over again. Always the samestupidity. Listen, you! Do you realize how long it took man to get outof the caves? The long slow painful creep of progress, for millennia,before he ever made that first step from the cave? I have no idea, I told him. I'll tell you this, he said belligerently. A lot longer than ittook for him to turn around and go right back into the cave again. Hestarted pacing the floor, waving the gun around in an agitated fashionas he talked. Is this the natural life of man? It is not. Is thiseven a desirable life for man? It is definitely not. He spun backto face me, pointing the gun at me again, but this time he pointedit as though it were a finger, not a gun. Listen, you, he snapped.Man was progressing. For all his stupidities and excesses, he wasgrowing up. His dreams were getting bigger and grander and better allthe time. He was planning to tackle space ! The moon first, and thenthe planets, and finally the stars. The whole universe was out there,waiting to be plucked like an apple from a tank. And Man was reachingout for it. He glared as though daring me to doubt it. <doc-sep>I decided that this man was doubly dangerous. Not only was he a spy,he was also a lunatic. So I had two reasons for humoring him. I noddedpolitely. So what happened? he demanded, and immediately answered himself.I'll tell you what happened! Just as he was about to make that firstgiant step, Man got a hotfoot. That's all it was, just a littlehotfoot. So what did Man do? I'll tell you what he did. He turnedaround and he ran all the way back to the cave he started from, histail between his legs. That's what he did! To say that all of this was incomprehensible would be an extremeunderstatement. I fulfilled my obligation to this insane dialogue bysaying, Here's your coffee. Put it on the table, he said, switching instantly from raving maniacto watchful spy. I put it on the table. He drank deep, then carried the cup across theroom and sat down in my favorite chair. He studied me narrowly, andsuddenly said, What did they tell you I was? A spy? Of course, I said. He grinned bitterly, with one side of his mouth. Of course. The damnfools! Spy! What do you suppose I'm going to spy on? He asked the question so violently and urgently that I knew I had toanswer quickly and well, or the maniac would return. I—I wouldn'tknow, exactly, I stammered. Military equipment, I suppose. Military equipment? What military equipment? Your Army is suppliedwith uniforms, whistles and hand guns, and that's about it. The defenses— I started. The defenses, he interrupted me, are non-existent. If you mean therocket launchers on the roof, they're rusted through with age. And whatother defenses are there? None. If you say so, I replied stiffly. The Army claimed that we hadadequate defense equipment. I chose to believe the Army over an enemyspy. Your people send out spies, too, don't they? he demanded. Well, of course. And what are they supposed to spy on? Well— It was such a pointless question, it seemed silly to evenanswer it. They're supposed to look for indications of an attack byone of the other projects. And do they find any indications, ever? I'm sure I don't know, I told him frostily. That would be classifiedinformation. You bet it would, he said, with malicious glee. All right, if that'swhat your spies are doing, and if I'm a spy, then it follows thatI'm doing the same thing, right? I don't follow you, I admitted. If I'm a spy, he said impatiently, then I'm supposed to look forindications of an attack by you people on my Project. I shrugged. If that's your job, I said, then that's your job. He got suddenly red-faced, and jumped to his feet. That's not myjob, you blatant idiot! he shouted. I'm not a spy! If I were a spy, then that would be my job! <doc-sep>The maniac had returned, in full force. All right, I said hastily.All right, whatever you say. He glowered at me a moment longer, then shouted, Bah! and droppedback into the chair. He breathed rather heavily for a while, glaring at the floor, thenlooked at me again. All right, listen. What if I were to tell you thatI had found indications that you people were planning to attack myProject? I stared at him. That's impossible! I cried. We aren't planning toattack anybody! We just want to be left in peace! How do I know that? he demanded. It's the truth! What would we want to attack anybody for? Ah hah! He sat forward, tensed, pointing the gun at me like a fingeragain. Now, then, he said. If you know it doesn't make any sense forthis Project to attack any other project, then why in the world shouldyou think they might see some advantage in attacking you ? I shook my head, dumbfounded. I can't answer a question like that, Isaid. How do I know what they're thinking? They're human beings, aren't they? he cried. Like you? Like me? Likeall the other people in this mausoleum? Now, wait a minute— No! he shouted. You wait a minute! I want to tell you something. Youthink I'm a spy. That blundering Army of yours thinks I'm a spy. Thatfathead who turned me in thinks I'm a spy. But I'm not a spy, and I'mgoing to tell you what I am. I waited, looking as attentive as possible. I come, he said, from a Project about eighty miles north of here.I came here by foot, without any sort of radiation shield at all toprotect me. The maniac was back. I didn't say a word. I didn't want to set off theviolence that was so obviously in this lunatic. The radiation level, he went on, is way down. It's practically aslow as it was before the Atom War. I don't know how long it's beenthat low, but I would guess about ten years, at the very least. Heleaned forward again, urgent and serious. The world is safe out therenow. Man can come back out of the cave again. He can start buildingthe dreams again. And this time he can build better, because he hasthe horrible example of the recent past to guide him away from thepitfalls. There's no need any longer for the Projects. And that was like saying there's no need any longer for stomachs, but Ididn't say so. I didn't say anything at all. I'm a trained atomic engineer, he went on. In my project, I workedon the reactor. Theoretically, I believed that there was a chance theradiation Outside was lessening by now, though we had no idea exactlyhow much radiation had been released by the Atom War. But I wantedto test the theory, and the Commission wouldn't let me. They claimedpublic safety, but I knew better. If the Outside were safe and theProjects were no longer needed, then the Commission was out of a job,and they knew it. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Linda, and what is her significance in the story?

Linda is the woman to whom Edmund intends to propose. She is the reason Edmund is trying to get on the elevator and why he ultimately decides to take the stairs, leading him to meet the spy. Linda’s job as an ore-sled operator has left her high-strung when it comes to punctuality. She sends robots out with ore-sleds, and when they don’t return on time, they know that the robot has been captured and has blown itself up to prevent other Projects from learning their technology secrets. Once when Edmund was late for a date with her, Linda worked herself into hysterics, and when he did show up, she refused to speak to Edmund for four days. Edmund has spent months building up the courage to propose to Linda, and the day he plans to do it, everything goes awry, making him run late. But he still reaches the elevator in time to reach Linda’s place thirteen stories below his level on time, except the elevator doesn’t come. The longer he waits for the elevator car, the more anxious Edmund grows, knowing that Linda will be so upset if he is late he won’t get to propose. Edmund loves Linda and would like to have a permanent marriage, but he realizes that Linda enjoys her freedom and independence too much to agree to a permanent marriage. Edmund will settle for a Non-P marriage with her: Non-Permanent, No Progeny. Linda anticipates Edmund’s proposal when he calls that morning to invite himself to her apartment. He can tell by her smile on the phone. In preparation for the proposal, Linda has set her phone to PRIVACY DISCONNECTION to prevent their proposal from being interrupted, but this also means that Edmund cannot reach her to let her know he is running late and why. Edmund is convinced that she won’t speak to him again after being late for the proposal and certainly will not accept his proposal. In a last-ditch effort to reach Linda, Edmund decides he can take 208 stairs to reach her, even though he hasn’t taken the stairs since he was 12 years old. This decision, of course, puts him in the path to run into the spy. Finally, Linda’s job helps Edmund believe he can overtake the spy if he can catch him off guard. Edmund knows enough about her job to talk about it with the spy, keeping his knowledge of wrestling, judo, and karate secret until he can make his move.

Describe the physical and social settings of the story. [SEP] <s> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>And now I had yet another grudge against this blasted spy. Whichreminded me again of Linda. From the looks of things, I wasn't ever going to get to her place. By now she was probably in mourning for meand might even have the Sanitation Staff searching for my remains. As I made the chico, he asked me questions. My name first, and then,What do you do for a living? I thought fast. I'm an ore-sled dispatcher, I said. That was a lie,of course, but I'd heard enough about ore-sled dispatching from Lindato be able to maintain the fiction should he question me further aboutit. Actually, I was a gymnast instructor. The subjects I taught includedwrestling, judo and karati—talents I would prefer to disclose to himin my own fashion, when the time came. He was quiet for a moment. What about radiation level on theore-sleds? I had no idea what he was talking about, and admitted as much. When they come back, he said. How much radiation do they pick up?Don't you people ever test them? Of course not, I told him. I was on secure ground now, with Linda'sinformation to guide me. All radiation is cleared from the sleds andtheir cargo before they're brought into the building. I know that, he said impatiently. But don't you ever check thembefore de-radiating them? No. Why should we? To find out how far the radiation level outside has dropped. For what? Who cares about that? He frowned bitterly. The same answer, he muttered, more to himselfthan to me. The same answer every time. You people have crawled intoyour caves and you're ready to stay in them forever. I looked around at my apartment. Rather a well-appointed cave, I toldhim. But a cave nevertheless. He leaned toward me, his eyes gleaming witha fanatical flame. Don't you ever wish to get Outside? Incredible! I nearly poured boiling water all over myself. Outside? Ofcourse not! The same thing, he grumbled, over and over again. Always the samestupidity. Listen, you! Do you realize how long it took man to get outof the caves? The long slow painful creep of progress, for millennia,before he ever made that first step from the cave? I have no idea, I told him. I'll tell you this, he said belligerently. A lot longer than ittook for him to turn around and go right back into the cave again. Hestarted pacing the floor, waving the gun around in an agitated fashionas he talked. Is this the natural life of man? It is not. Is thiseven a desirable life for man? It is definitely not. He spun backto face me, pointing the gun at me again, but this time he pointedit as though it were a finger, not a gun. Listen, you, he snapped.Man was progressing. For all his stupidities and excesses, he wasgrowing up. His dreams were getting bigger and grander and better allthe time. He was planning to tackle space ! The moon first, and thenthe planets, and finally the stars. The whole universe was out there,waiting to be plucked like an apple from a tank. And Man was reachingout for it. He glared as though daring me to doubt it. <doc-sep>I decided that this man was doubly dangerous. Not only was he a spy,he was also a lunatic. So I had two reasons for humoring him. I noddedpolitely. So what happened? he demanded, and immediately answered himself.I'll tell you what happened! Just as he was about to make that firstgiant step, Man got a hotfoot. That's all it was, just a littlehotfoot. So what did Man do? I'll tell you what he did. He turnedaround and he ran all the way back to the cave he started from, histail between his legs. That's what he did! To say that all of this was incomprehensible would be an extremeunderstatement. I fulfilled my obligation to this insane dialogue bysaying, Here's your coffee. Put it on the table, he said, switching instantly from raving maniacto watchful spy. I put it on the table. He drank deep, then carried the cup across theroom and sat down in my favorite chair. He studied me narrowly, andsuddenly said, What did they tell you I was? A spy? Of course, I said. He grinned bitterly, with one side of his mouth. Of course. The damnfools! Spy! What do you suppose I'm going to spy on? He asked the question so violently and urgently that I knew I had toanswer quickly and well, or the maniac would return. I—I wouldn'tknow, exactly, I stammered. Military equipment, I suppose. Military equipment? What military equipment? Your Army is suppliedwith uniforms, whistles and hand guns, and that's about it. The defenses— I started. The defenses, he interrupted me, are non-existent. If you mean therocket launchers on the roof, they're rusted through with age. And whatother defenses are there? None. If you say so, I replied stiffly. The Army claimed that we hadadequate defense equipment. I chose to believe the Army over an enemyspy. Your people send out spies, too, don't they? he demanded. Well, of course. And what are they supposed to spy on? Well— It was such a pointless question, it seemed silly to evenanswer it. They're supposed to look for indications of an attack byone of the other projects. And do they find any indications, ever? I'm sure I don't know, I told him frostily. That would be classifiedinformation. You bet it would, he said, with malicious glee. All right, if that'swhat your spies are doing, and if I'm a spy, then it follows thatI'm doing the same thing, right? I don't follow you, I admitted. If I'm a spy, he said impatiently, then I'm supposed to look forindications of an attack by you people on my Project. I shrugged. If that's your job, I said, then that's your job. He got suddenly red-faced, and jumped to his feet. That's not myjob, you blatant idiot! he shouted. I'm not a spy! If I were a spy, then that would be my job! <doc-sep>The maniac had returned, in full force. All right, I said hastily.All right, whatever you say. He glowered at me a moment longer, then shouted, Bah! and droppedback into the chair. He breathed rather heavily for a while, glaring at the floor, thenlooked at me again. All right, listen. What if I were to tell you thatI had found indications that you people were planning to attack myProject? I stared at him. That's impossible! I cried. We aren't planning toattack anybody! We just want to be left in peace! How do I know that? he demanded. It's the truth! What would we want to attack anybody for? Ah hah! He sat forward, tensed, pointing the gun at me like a fingeragain. Now, then, he said. If you know it doesn't make any sense forthis Project to attack any other project, then why in the world shouldyou think they might see some advantage in attacking you ? I shook my head, dumbfounded. I can't answer a question like that, Isaid. How do I know what they're thinking? They're human beings, aren't they? he cried. Like you? Like me? Likeall the other people in this mausoleum? Now, wait a minute— No! he shouted. You wait a minute! I want to tell you something. Youthink I'm a spy. That blundering Army of yours thinks I'm a spy. Thatfathead who turned me in thinks I'm a spy. But I'm not a spy, and I'mgoing to tell you what I am. I waited, looking as attentive as possible. I come, he said, from a Project about eighty miles north of here.I came here by foot, without any sort of radiation shield at all toprotect me. The maniac was back. I didn't say a word. I didn't want to set off theviolence that was so obviously in this lunatic. The radiation level, he went on, is way down. It's practically aslow as it was before the Atom War. I don't know how long it's beenthat low, but I would guess about ten years, at the very least. Heleaned forward again, urgent and serious. The world is safe out therenow. Man can come back out of the cave again. He can start buildingthe dreams again. And this time he can build better, because he hasthe horrible example of the recent past to guide him away from thepitfalls. There's no need any longer for the Projects. And that was like saying there's no need any longer for stomachs, but Ididn't say so. I didn't say anything at all. I'm a trained atomic engineer, he went on. In my project, I workedon the reactor. Theoretically, I believed that there was a chance theradiation Outside was lessening by now, though we had no idea exactlyhow much radiation had been released by the Atom War. But I wantedto test the theory, and the Commission wouldn't let me. They claimedpublic safety, but I knew better. If the Outside were safe and theProjects were no longer needed, then the Commission was out of a job,and they knew it. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the physical and social settings of the story.

The story takes place some time after the year 2100, after World Wars I, II, and III have been fought. Due to the population explosion, by 2000, everyone lived in Projects. These Projects are vertically expanded buildings housing people on floors numbering up to two hundred; the Projects are self-contained and self-sufficient. The people in them do not have to go outside where they fear radiation from atomic bombs used in the wars still exists. The Projects provide restaurants, shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners, schools, churches, factories, etc. Food is grown hydroponically. The Projects are protected by force screens that deflect the radiation and all have their own armies that are supposed to protect them from spies from other Projects. The Projects have advanced technology. Telephones have visual capability that allows callers to see each other; this is how Edmund knows that Linda anticipates his proposal. They have robots that mine and collect ore using ore-sleds. The robots are equipped to self-detonate if they are captured. The Projects are suspicious of each other because so many treaties were broken during the Ungentlemanly Gentleman’s War, so Projects aren’t willing to expose themself to the possible dangers of reaching out or allying with other Projects. The Army practices Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparedness in case of danger, allowing the people in the Projects to just live their lives.The Treaty of Oslo provides a sense of safety because it means that Projects will not be bombed in case of war. Socially, not all marriages are intended to be permanent, especially if the couple is not genetically desirable. There is a Non-P marriage option in this case: Non-Permanent and No Progeny. In Non-P marriages, people contract to marry for a short term, such as one or two years. People are also scared of strangers; hence, the man in the elevator is deemed a spy before anyone even speaks with him.

What is the significance of the spy in the elevator? [SEP] <s> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>And now I had yet another grudge against this blasted spy. Whichreminded me again of Linda. From the looks of things, I wasn't ever going to get to her place. By now she was probably in mourning for meand might even have the Sanitation Staff searching for my remains. As I made the chico, he asked me questions. My name first, and then,What do you do for a living? I thought fast. I'm an ore-sled dispatcher, I said. That was a lie,of course, but I'd heard enough about ore-sled dispatching from Lindato be able to maintain the fiction should he question me further aboutit. Actually, I was a gymnast instructor. The subjects I taught includedwrestling, judo and karati—talents I would prefer to disclose to himin my own fashion, when the time came. He was quiet for a moment. What about radiation level on theore-sleds? I had no idea what he was talking about, and admitted as much. When they come back, he said. How much radiation do they pick up?Don't you people ever test them? Of course not, I told him. I was on secure ground now, with Linda'sinformation to guide me. All radiation is cleared from the sleds andtheir cargo before they're brought into the building. I know that, he said impatiently. But don't you ever check thembefore de-radiating them? No. Why should we? To find out how far the radiation level outside has dropped. For what? Who cares about that? He frowned bitterly. The same answer, he muttered, more to himselfthan to me. The same answer every time. You people have crawled intoyour caves and you're ready to stay in them forever. I looked around at my apartment. Rather a well-appointed cave, I toldhim. But a cave nevertheless. He leaned toward me, his eyes gleaming witha fanatical flame. Don't you ever wish to get Outside? Incredible! I nearly poured boiling water all over myself. Outside? Ofcourse not! The same thing, he grumbled, over and over again. Always the samestupidity. Listen, you! Do you realize how long it took man to get outof the caves? The long slow painful creep of progress, for millennia,before he ever made that first step from the cave? I have no idea, I told him. I'll tell you this, he said belligerently. A lot longer than ittook for him to turn around and go right back into the cave again. Hestarted pacing the floor, waving the gun around in an agitated fashionas he talked. Is this the natural life of man? It is not. Is thiseven a desirable life for man? It is definitely not. He spun backto face me, pointing the gun at me again, but this time he pointedit as though it were a finger, not a gun. Listen, you, he snapped.Man was progressing. For all his stupidities and excesses, he wasgrowing up. His dreams were getting bigger and grander and better allthe time. He was planning to tackle space ! The moon first, and thenthe planets, and finally the stars. The whole universe was out there,waiting to be plucked like an apple from a tank. And Man was reachingout for it. He glared as though daring me to doubt it. <doc-sep>I decided that this man was doubly dangerous. Not only was he a spy,he was also a lunatic. So I had two reasons for humoring him. I noddedpolitely. So what happened? he demanded, and immediately answered himself.I'll tell you what happened! Just as he was about to make that firstgiant step, Man got a hotfoot. That's all it was, just a littlehotfoot. So what did Man do? I'll tell you what he did. He turnedaround and he ran all the way back to the cave he started from, histail between his legs. That's what he did! To say that all of this was incomprehensible would be an extremeunderstatement. I fulfilled my obligation to this insane dialogue bysaying, Here's your coffee. Put it on the table, he said, switching instantly from raving maniacto watchful spy. I put it on the table. He drank deep, then carried the cup across theroom and sat down in my favorite chair. He studied me narrowly, andsuddenly said, What did they tell you I was? A spy? Of course, I said. He grinned bitterly, with one side of his mouth. Of course. The damnfools! Spy! What do you suppose I'm going to spy on? He asked the question so violently and urgently that I knew I had toanswer quickly and well, or the maniac would return. I—I wouldn'tknow, exactly, I stammered. Military equipment, I suppose. Military equipment? What military equipment? Your Army is suppliedwith uniforms, whistles and hand guns, and that's about it. The defenses— I started. The defenses, he interrupted me, are non-existent. If you mean therocket launchers on the roof, they're rusted through with age. And whatother defenses are there? None. If you say so, I replied stiffly. The Army claimed that we hadadequate defense equipment. I chose to believe the Army over an enemyspy. Your people send out spies, too, don't they? he demanded. Well, of course. And what are they supposed to spy on? Well— It was such a pointless question, it seemed silly to evenanswer it. They're supposed to look for indications of an attack byone of the other projects. And do they find any indications, ever? I'm sure I don't know, I told him frostily. That would be classifiedinformation. You bet it would, he said, with malicious glee. All right, if that'swhat your spies are doing, and if I'm a spy, then it follows thatI'm doing the same thing, right? I don't follow you, I admitted. If I'm a spy, he said impatiently, then I'm supposed to look forindications of an attack by you people on my Project. I shrugged. If that's your job, I said, then that's your job. He got suddenly red-faced, and jumped to his feet. That's not myjob, you blatant idiot! he shouted. I'm not a spy! If I were a spy, then that would be my job! <doc-sep>The maniac had returned, in full force. All right, I said hastily.All right, whatever you say. He glowered at me a moment longer, then shouted, Bah! and droppedback into the chair. He breathed rather heavily for a while, glaring at the floor, thenlooked at me again. All right, listen. What if I were to tell you thatI had found indications that you people were planning to attack myProject? I stared at him. That's impossible! I cried. We aren't planning toattack anybody! We just want to be left in peace! How do I know that? he demanded. It's the truth! What would we want to attack anybody for? Ah hah! He sat forward, tensed, pointing the gun at me like a fingeragain. Now, then, he said. If you know it doesn't make any sense forthis Project to attack any other project, then why in the world shouldyou think they might see some advantage in attacking you ? I shook my head, dumbfounded. I can't answer a question like that, Isaid. How do I know what they're thinking? They're human beings, aren't they? he cried. Like you? Like me? Likeall the other people in this mausoleum? Now, wait a minute— No! he shouted. You wait a minute! I want to tell you something. Youthink I'm a spy. That blundering Army of yours thinks I'm a spy. Thatfathead who turned me in thinks I'm a spy. But I'm not a spy, and I'mgoing to tell you what I am. I waited, looking as attentive as possible. I come, he said, from a Project about eighty miles north of here.I came here by foot, without any sort of radiation shield at all toprotect me. The maniac was back. I didn't say a word. I didn't want to set off theviolence that was so obviously in this lunatic. The radiation level, he went on, is way down. It's practically aslow as it was before the Atom War. I don't know how long it's beenthat low, but I would guess about ten years, at the very least. Heleaned forward again, urgent and serious. The world is safe out therenow. Man can come back out of the cave again. He can start buildingthe dreams again. And this time he can build better, because he hasthe horrible example of the recent past to guide him away from thepitfalls. There's no need any longer for the Projects. And that was like saying there's no need any longer for stomachs, but Ididn't say so. I didn't say anything at all. I'm a trained atomic engineer, he went on. In my project, I workedon the reactor. Theoretically, I believed that there was a chance theradiation Outside was lessening by now, though we had no idea exactlyhow much radiation had been released by the Atom War. But I wantedto test the theory, and the Commission wouldn't let me. They claimedpublic safety, but I knew better. If the Outside were safe and theProjects were no longer needed, then the Commission was out of a job,and they knew it. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the spy in the elevator?

The spy thwarts Edmund’s planned proposal to Linda, but on a larger scale, he threatens the entire way of life in the Projects. The spy in the elevator isn’t really a spy, but the Army claims he is. It is in the interest of the Army and the Commissions of the Projects for people to believe that the radiation level outside the Projects is too high for people to survive because keeping people fearful keeps them in the Projects and needful of the Army and Commission. The people in the Projects are taught to be fearful of other Projects who might come and try to learn their secrets, military, technology, or otherwise. The Army is trying to capture the spy who has holed himself up in the elevator and is planning to starve him out if necessary. The spy uses logic to try to convince Edmund that he isn’t really a spy, that the Projects don’t really need to worry about spies, and that the Projects aren’t really needed at all. The spy is actually an atomic engineer from a Project about 80 miles north of Edmund’s. He suspected that the radiation levels after the atomic war have dropped low enough to be safe for people to go outside the Projects. When he asks his Commission to be allowed to study this, he is refused. The Commission knows that if people can leave the Projects, there would be no need for the Commission. To secretly test his theory, the spy left his Project and walked all the way to Edmund’s project without a radiation shield. He is fine, and he is trying to convince the people in the Projects that it is safe to go outside; he compares the Projects to caves and the people to cavemen. He claims that the Projects are stunting society’s progress by keeping everyone “locked down.”

Who is Edmund Rice, and what happens to him in the story? [SEP] <s> THE SPY IN THE ELEVATOR By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Illustrated by WEST [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was dangerously insane. He threatened to destroy everything that was noble and decent—including my date with my girl! When the elevator didn't come, that just made the day perfect. A brokenegg yolk, a stuck zipper, a feedback in the aircon exhaust, the windowsticking at full transparency—well, I won't go through the whole sorrylist. Suffice it to say that when the elevator didn't come, that putthe roof on the city, as they say. It was just one of those days. Everybody gets them. Days when you'relucky in you make it to nightfall with no bones broken. But of all times for it to happen! For literally months I'd beenbuilding my courage up. And finally, just today, I had made up mymind to do it—to propose to Linda. I'd called her second thing thismorning—right after the egg yolk—and invited myself down to herplace. Ten o'clock, she'd said, smiling sweetly at me out of thephone. She knew why I wanted to talk to her. And when Linda said teno'clock, she meant ten o'clock. Don't get me wrong. I don't mean that Linda's a perfectionist or aharridan or anything like that. Far from it. But she does have afixation on that one subject of punctuality. The result of her job,of course. She was an ore-sled dispatcher. Ore-sleds, being robots,were invariably punctual. If an ore-sled didn't return on time, no onewaited for it. They simply knew that it had been captured by some otherProject and had blown itself up. Well, of course, after working as an ore-sled dispatcher for threeyears, Linda quite naturally was a bit obsessed. I remember one time,shortly after we'd started dating, when I arrived at her place fiveminutes late and found her having hysterics. She thought I'd beenkilled. She couldn't visualize anything less than that keeping me fromarriving at the designated moment. When I told her what actually hadhappened—I'd broken a shoe lace—she refused to speak to me for fourdays. And then the elevator didn't come. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep>It took three tries before I got through to a hurried-looking femalereceptionist My name is Rice! I bellowed. Edmund Rice! I live on thehundred and fifty-third floor! I just rang for the elevator and—— The-elevator-is-disconnected. She said it very rapidly, as though shewere growing very used to saying it. It only stopped me for a second. Disconnected? What do you meandisconnected? Elevators don't get disconnected! I told her. We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible, she rattled. My bellowingwas bouncing off her like radiation off the Project force-screen. I changed tactics. First I inhaled, making a production out of it,giving myself a chance to calm down a bit. And then I asked, asrationally as you could please, Would you mind terribly telling me why the elevator is disconnected? I-am-sorry-sir-but-that—— Stop, I said. I said it quietly, too, but she stopped. I saw herlooking at me. She hadn't done that before, she'd merely gazed blanklyat her screen and parroted her responses. But now she was actually looking at me . I took advantage of the fact. Calmly, rationally, I said to her, Iwould like to tell you something, Miss. I would like to tell you justwhat you people have done to me by disconnecting the elevator. You haveruined my life. She blinked, open-mouthed. Ruined your life? Precisely. I found it necessary to inhale again, even more slowlythan before. I was on my way, I explained, to propose to a girl whomI dearly love. In every way but one, she is the perfect woman. Do youunderstand me? She nodded, wide-eyed. I had stumbled on a romantic, though I was toopreoccupied to notice it at the time. In every way but one, I continued. She has one small imperfection,a fixation about punctuality. And I was supposed to meet her at teno'clock. I'm late! I shook my fist at the screen. Do you realizewhat you've done , disconnecting the elevator? Not only won't shemarry me, she won't even speak to me! Not now! Not after this! Sir, she said tremulously, please don't shout. I'm not shouting! Sir, I'm terribly sorry. I understand your— You understand ? I trembled with speechless fury. She looked all about her, and then leaned closer to the screen,revealing a cleavage that I was too distraught at the moment to payany attention to. We're not supposed to give this information out,sir, she said, her voice low, but I'm going to tell you, so you'llunderstand why we had to do it. I think it's perfectly awful that ithad to ruin things for you this way. But the fact of the matter is—she leaned even closer to the screen—there's a spy in the elevator. II It was my turn to be stunned. I just gaped at her. A—a what? A spy. He was discovered on the hundred forty-seventh floor, andmanaged to get into the elevator before the Army could catch him. Hejammed it between floors. But the Army is doing everything it can thinkof to get him out. Well—but why should there be any problem about getting him out? He plugged in the manual controls. We can't control the elevator fromoutside at all. And when anyone tries to get into the shaft, he aimsthe elevator at them. That sounded impossible. He aims the elevator? He runs it up and down the shaft, she explained, trying to crushanybody who goes after him. Oh, I said. So it might take a while. She leaned so close this time that even I, distracted as I was, couldhardly help but take note of her cleavage. She whispered, They'reafraid they'll have to starve him out. Oh, no! She nodded solemnly. I'm terribly sorry, sir, she said. Then sheglanced to her right, suddenly straightened up again, and said,We-will-resume-service-as-soon-as-possible. Click. Blank screen. For a minute or two, all I could do was sit and absorb what I'd beentold. A spy in the elevator! A spy who had managed to work his way allthe way up to the hundred forty-seventh floor before being unmasked! What in the world was the matter with the Army? If things were gettingthat lax, the Project was doomed, force-screen or no. Who knew how manymore spies there were in the Project, still unsuspected? Until that moment, the state of siege in which we all lived had hadno reality for me. The Project, after all, was self-sufficient andcompletely enclosed. No one ever left, no one ever entered. Under ourroof, we were a nation, two hundred stories high. The ever-presentthreat of other projects had never been more for me—or for most otherpeople either, I suspected—than occasional ore-sleds that didn'treturn, occasional spies shot down as they tried to sneak into thebuilding, occasional spies of our own leaving the Project in tinyradiation-proof cars, hoping to get safely within another project andbring back news of any immediate threats and dangers that project mightbe planning for us. Most spies didn't return; most ore-sleds did. Andwithin the Project life was full, the knowledge of external dangersmerely lurking at the backs of our minds. After all, those externaldangers had been no more than potential for decades, since what Dr.Kilbillie called the Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War. Dr. Kilbillie—Intermediate Project History, when I was fifteen yearsold—had private names for every major war of the twentieth century.There was the Ignoble Nobleman's War, the Racial Non-Racial War, andthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, known to the textbooks of course asWorld Wars One, Two, and Three. The rise of the Projects, according to Dr. Kilbillie, was the result ofmany many factors, but two of the most important were the populationexplosion and the Treaty of Oslo. The population explosion, of course,meant that there was continuously more and more people but never anymore space. So that housing, in the historically short time of onecentury, made a complete transformation from horizontal expansion tovertical. Before 1900, the vast majority of human beings lived intiny huts of from one to five stories. By 2000, everybody lived inProjects. From the very beginning, small attempts were made to makethese Projects more than dwelling places. By mid-century, Projects(also called apartments and co-ops) already included restaurants,shopping centers, baby-sitting services, dry cleaners and a host ofother adjuncts. By the end of the century, the Projects were completelyself-sufficient, with food grown hydroponically in the sub-basements,separate floors set aside for schools and churches and factories, robotore-sleds capable of seeking out raw materials unavailable within theProjects themselves and so on. And all because of, among other things,the population explosion. And the Treaty of Oslo. It seems there was a power-struggle between two sets of then-existingnations (they were something like Projects, only horizontal instead ofvertical) and both sets were equipped with atomic weapons. The Treatyof Oslo began by stating that atomic war was unthinkable, and addedthat just in case anyone happened to think of it only tactical atomicweapons could be used. No strategic atomic weapons. (A tacticalweapon is something you use on the soldiers, and a strategic weapons issomething you use on the folks at home.) Oddly enough, when somebodydid think of the war, both sides adhered to the Treaty of Oslo, whichmeant that no Projects were bombed. Of course, they made up for this as best they could by using tacticalatomic weapons all over the place. After the war almost the wholeworld was quite dangerously radioactive. Except for the Projects. Orat least those of them which had in time installed the force screenswhich had been invented on the very eve of battle, and which deflectedradioactive particles. However, what with all of the other treaties which were broken duringthe Ungentlemanly Gentleman's War, by the time it was finished nobodywas quite sure any more who was on whose side. That project over thereon the horizon might be an ally. And then again it might not. Sincethey weren't sure either, it was risky to expose yourself in order toask. And so life went on, with little to remind us of the dangers lurkingOutside. The basic policy of Eternal Vigilance and Instant Preparednesswas left to the Army. The rest of us simply lived our lives and let itgo at that. <doc-sep>But now there was a spy in the elevator. When I thought of how deeply he had penetrated our defenses, and of howmany others there might be, still penetrating, I shuddered. The wallswere our safeguards only so long as all potential enemies were on theother side of them. I sat shaken, digesting this news, until suddenly I remembered Linda. I leaped to my feet, reading from my watch that it was now ten-fifteen.I dashed once more from the apartment and down the hall to theelevator, praying that the spy had been captured by now and that Lindawould agree with me that a spy in the elevator was good and sufficientreason for me to be late. He was still there. At least, the elevator was still out. I sagged against the wall, thinking dismal thoughts. Then I noticed thedoor to the right of the elevator. Through that door was the stairway. I hadn't paid any attention to it before. No one ever uses the stairsexcept adventurous young boys playing cops and robbers, running up anddown from landing to landing. I myself hadn't set foot on a flight ofstairs since I was twelve years old. Actually, the whole idea of stairs was ridiculous. We had elevators,didn't we? Usually, I mean, when they didn't contain spies. So what wasthe use of stairs? Well, according to Dr. Kilbillie (a walking library of unnecessaryinformation), the Project had been built when there still had been suchthings as municipal governments (something to do with cities, whichwere more or less grouped Projects), and the local municipal governmenthad had on its books a fire ordinance, anachronistic even then, whichrequired a complete set of stairs in every building constructed in thecity. Ergo, the Project had stairs, thirty-two hundred of them. And now, after all these years, the stairs might prove useful afterall. It was only thirteen flights to Linda's floor. At sixteen steps aflight, that meant two hundred and eight steps. Could I descend two hundred and eight steps for my true love? I could.If the door would open. It would, though reluctantly. Who knew how many years it had been sincelast this door had been opened? It squeaked and wailed and groaned andfinally opened half way. I stepped through to the musty, dusty landing,took a deep breath, and started down. Eight steps and a landing, eightsteps and a floor. Eight steps and a landing, eight steps and a floor. On the landing between one fifty and one forty-nine, there was asmallish door. I paused, looking curiously at it, and saw that at onetime letters had been painted on it. The letters had long since flakedaway, but they left a lighter residue of dust than that which coveredthe rest of the door. And so the words could still be read, if withdifficulty. I read them. They said: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE ELEVATOR SHAFT AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY KEEP LOCKED I frowned, wondering immediately why this door wasn't being firmlyguarded by at least a platoon of Army men. Half a dozen possibleanswers flashed through my mind. The more recent maps might simplyhave omitted this discarded and unnecessary door. It might be sealedshut on the other side. The Army might have caught the spy already.Somebody in authority might simply have goofed. As I stood there, pondering these possibilities, the door opened andthe spy came out, waving a gun. III He couldn't have been anyone else but the spy. The gun, in the firstplace. The fact that he looked harried and upset and terribly nervous,in the second place. And, of course, the fact that he came from theelevator shaft. Looking back, I think he must have been just as startled as I when wecame face to face like that. We formed a brief tableau, both of usopen-mouthed and wide-eyed. Unfortunately, he recovered first. He closed the emergency door behind him, quickly but quietly. His gunstopped waving around and instead pointed directly at my middle. Don'tmove! he whispered harshly. Don't make a sound! I did exactly as I was told. I didn't move and I didn't make a sound.Which left me quite free to study him. He was rather short, perhaps three inches shorter than me, with a bonyhigh-cheekboned face featuring deepset eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. Hewore gray slacks and shirt, with brown slippers on his feet. He lookedexactly like a spy ... which is to say that he didn't look like aspy, he looked overpoweringly ordinary. More than anything else, hereminded me of a rather taciturn milkman who used to make deliveries tomy parents' apartment. His gaze darted this way and that. Then he motioned with his free handat the descending stairs and whispered, Where do they go? I had to clear my throat before I could speak. All the way down, Isaid. Good, he said—just as we both heard a sudden raucous squealing fromperhaps four flights down, a squealing which could be nothing but theopening of a hall door. It was followed by the heavy thud of ascendingboots. The Army! But if I had any visions of imminent rescue, the spy dashed them. Hesaid, Where do you live? One fifty-three, I said. This was a desperate and dangerous man.I knew my only slim chance of safety lay in answering his questionspromptly, cooperating with him until and unless I saw a chance toeither escape or capture him. All right, he whispered. Go on. He prodded me with the gun. And so we went back up the stairs to one fifty-three, and stopped atthe door. He stood close behind me, the gun pressed against my back,and grated in my ear, I'll have this gun in my pocket. If you make onefalse move I'll kill you. Now, we're going to your apartment. We'refriends, just strolling along together. You got that? I nodded. All right. Let's go. We went. I have never in my life seen that long hall quite so empty asit was right then. No one came out of any of the apartments, no oneemerged from any of the branch halls. We walked to my apartment. Ithumbed the door open and we went inside. Once the door was closed behind us, he visibly relaxed, sagging againstthe door, his gun hand hanging limp at his side, a nervous smileplaying across his lips. I looked at him, judging the distance between us, wondering if I couldleap at him before he could bring the gun up again. But he must haveread my intentions on my face. He straightened, shaking his head. Hesaid, Don't try it. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to killanybody, but I will if I have to. We'll just wait here together untilthe hue and cry passes us. Then I'll tie you up, so you won't be ableto sic your Army on me too soon, and I'll leave. If you don't try anysilly heroics, nothing will happen to you. You'll never get away, I told him. The whole Project is alerted. You let me worry about that, he said. He licked his lips. You gotany chico coffee? Yes. Make me a cup. And don't get any bright ideas about dousing me withboiling water. I only have my day's allotment, I protested. Just enough for twocups, lunch and dinner. Two cups is fine, he said. One for each of us. <doc-sep>And now I had yet another grudge against this blasted spy. Whichreminded me again of Linda. From the looks of things, I wasn't ever going to get to her place. By now she was probably in mourning for meand might even have the Sanitation Staff searching for my remains. As I made the chico, he asked me questions. My name first, and then,What do you do for a living? I thought fast. I'm an ore-sled dispatcher, I said. That was a lie,of course, but I'd heard enough about ore-sled dispatching from Lindato be able to maintain the fiction should he question me further aboutit. Actually, I was a gymnast instructor. The subjects I taught includedwrestling, judo and karati—talents I would prefer to disclose to himin my own fashion, when the time came. He was quiet for a moment. What about radiation level on theore-sleds? I had no idea what he was talking about, and admitted as much. When they come back, he said. How much radiation do they pick up?Don't you people ever test them? Of course not, I told him. I was on secure ground now, with Linda'sinformation to guide me. All radiation is cleared from the sleds andtheir cargo before they're brought into the building. I know that, he said impatiently. But don't you ever check thembefore de-radiating them? No. Why should we? To find out how far the radiation level outside has dropped. For what? Who cares about that? He frowned bitterly. The same answer, he muttered, more to himselfthan to me. The same answer every time. You people have crawled intoyour caves and you're ready to stay in them forever. I looked around at my apartment. Rather a well-appointed cave, I toldhim. But a cave nevertheless. He leaned toward me, his eyes gleaming witha fanatical flame. Don't you ever wish to get Outside? Incredible! I nearly poured boiling water all over myself. Outside? Ofcourse not! The same thing, he grumbled, over and over again. Always the samestupidity. Listen, you! Do you realize how long it took man to get outof the caves? The long slow painful creep of progress, for millennia,before he ever made that first step from the cave? I have no idea, I told him. I'll tell you this, he said belligerently. A lot longer than ittook for him to turn around and go right back into the cave again. Hestarted pacing the floor, waving the gun around in an agitated fashionas he talked. Is this the natural life of man? It is not. Is thiseven a desirable life for man? It is definitely not. He spun backto face me, pointing the gun at me again, but this time he pointedit as though it were a finger, not a gun. Listen, you, he snapped.Man was progressing. For all his stupidities and excesses, he wasgrowing up. His dreams were getting bigger and grander and better allthe time. He was planning to tackle space ! The moon first, and thenthe planets, and finally the stars. The whole universe was out there,waiting to be plucked like an apple from a tank. And Man was reachingout for it. He glared as though daring me to doubt it. <doc-sep>I decided that this man was doubly dangerous. Not only was he a spy,he was also a lunatic. So I had two reasons for humoring him. I noddedpolitely. So what happened? he demanded, and immediately answered himself.I'll tell you what happened! Just as he was about to make that firstgiant step, Man got a hotfoot. That's all it was, just a littlehotfoot. So what did Man do? I'll tell you what he did. He turnedaround and he ran all the way back to the cave he started from, histail between his legs. That's what he did! To say that all of this was incomprehensible would be an extremeunderstatement. I fulfilled my obligation to this insane dialogue bysaying, Here's your coffee. Put it on the table, he said, switching instantly from raving maniacto watchful spy. I put it on the table. He drank deep, then carried the cup across theroom and sat down in my favorite chair. He studied me narrowly, andsuddenly said, What did they tell you I was? A spy? Of course, I said. He grinned bitterly, with one side of his mouth. Of course. The damnfools! Spy! What do you suppose I'm going to spy on? He asked the question so violently and urgently that I knew I had toanswer quickly and well, or the maniac would return. I—I wouldn'tknow, exactly, I stammered. Military equipment, I suppose. Military equipment? What military equipment? Your Army is suppliedwith uniforms, whistles and hand guns, and that's about it. The defenses— I started. The defenses, he interrupted me, are non-existent. If you mean therocket launchers on the roof, they're rusted through with age. And whatother defenses are there? None. If you say so, I replied stiffly. The Army claimed that we hadadequate defense equipment. I chose to believe the Army over an enemyspy. Your people send out spies, too, don't they? he demanded. Well, of course. And what are they supposed to spy on? Well— It was such a pointless question, it seemed silly to evenanswer it. They're supposed to look for indications of an attack byone of the other projects. And do they find any indications, ever? I'm sure I don't know, I told him frostily. That would be classifiedinformation. You bet it would, he said, with malicious glee. All right, if that'swhat your spies are doing, and if I'm a spy, then it follows thatI'm doing the same thing, right? I don't follow you, I admitted. If I'm a spy, he said impatiently, then I'm supposed to look forindications of an attack by you people on my Project. I shrugged. If that's your job, I said, then that's your job. He got suddenly red-faced, and jumped to his feet. That's not myjob, you blatant idiot! he shouted. I'm not a spy! If I were a spy, then that would be my job! <doc-sep>The maniac had returned, in full force. All right, I said hastily.All right, whatever you say. He glowered at me a moment longer, then shouted, Bah! and droppedback into the chair. He breathed rather heavily for a while, glaring at the floor, thenlooked at me again. All right, listen. What if I were to tell you thatI had found indications that you people were planning to attack myProject? I stared at him. That's impossible! I cried. We aren't planning toattack anybody! We just want to be left in peace! How do I know that? he demanded. It's the truth! What would we want to attack anybody for? Ah hah! He sat forward, tensed, pointing the gun at me like a fingeragain. Now, then, he said. If you know it doesn't make any sense forthis Project to attack any other project, then why in the world shouldyou think they might see some advantage in attacking you ? I shook my head, dumbfounded. I can't answer a question like that, Isaid. How do I know what they're thinking? They're human beings, aren't they? he cried. Like you? Like me? Likeall the other people in this mausoleum? Now, wait a minute— No! he shouted. You wait a minute! I want to tell you something. Youthink I'm a spy. That blundering Army of yours thinks I'm a spy. Thatfathead who turned me in thinks I'm a spy. But I'm not a spy, and I'mgoing to tell you what I am. I waited, looking as attentive as possible. I come, he said, from a Project about eighty miles north of here.I came here by foot, without any sort of radiation shield at all toprotect me. The maniac was back. I didn't say a word. I didn't want to set off theviolence that was so obviously in this lunatic. The radiation level, he went on, is way down. It's practically aslow as it was before the Atom War. I don't know how long it's beenthat low, but I would guess about ten years, at the very least. Heleaned forward again, urgent and serious. The world is safe out therenow. Man can come back out of the cave again. He can start buildingthe dreams again. And this time he can build better, because he hasthe horrible example of the recent past to guide him away from thepitfalls. There's no need any longer for the Projects. And that was like saying there's no need any longer for stomachs, but Ididn't say so. I didn't say anything at all. I'm a trained atomic engineer, he went on. In my project, I workedon the reactor. Theoretically, I believed that there was a chance theradiation Outside was lessening by now, though we had no idea exactlyhow much radiation had been released by the Atom War. But I wantedto test the theory, and the Commission wouldn't let me. They claimedpublic safety, but I knew better. If the Outside were safe and theProjects were no longer needed, then the Commission was out of a job,and they knew it. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Edmund Rice, and what happens to him in the story?

Edmund is eager to propose to his girlfriend. He truly loves her and would like a long marriage, but he is willing to settle for a Non-P marriage since he knows she values her freedom and independence. After gathering the courage to propose, he makes a date with her one morning, but multiple minor calamities make him run late. Linda is a stickler for punctuality, so on this morning, it is especially important to be on time. When he makes it to the elevator with five minutes to spare, his proposal is thwarted because a spy is holding it up. When he tries to call Linda to let her know he is running late, he can’t get the call through because she has set her phone not to be disturbed. When he learns that a spy is holding up the elevator and might be in there until the Army can starve him out, he decides to brave the 208 stairs down to Linda’s apartment, only to run into the spy there. The spy forces Edmund back to his apartment, where he explains he is not really a spy and that the radiation levels outside are so low it is safe for everyone to leave the projects. Edmund is sure the man is a lunatic despite the logic of his argument. He realizes that his chance to marry Linda is gone; she will never forgive him for being late.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>The Room of the Ruler was large, square and excessively brown. Thewalls were dark-brown, the furnishings—a single great chair, severalkneeling-benches and a small table near the chair—were light-brown,of some metallic substance, and even the drapes were tan. It was,Korvin decided, much too much of a bad idea, even when the colorcontrast of the Tr'en themselves were figured in. The Ruler himself, a Tr'en over seven feet tall and correspondinglybroad, sat in the great chair, his four fingers tapping gently on thetable near him, staring at Korvin and his guards. The guards stood oneither side of their captive, looking as impassive as jade statues,six and a half feet high. Korvin wasn't attempting to escape. He wasn't pleading with the Ruler.He wasn't defying the Ruler, either. He was just answering questions. The Tr'en liked to have everything clear. They were a logical race.The Ruler had started with Korvin's race, his name, his sex—ifany—and whether or not his appearance were normal for humanity. Korvin was answering the last question. Some men are larger than Iam, he said, and some are smaller. Within what limits? Korvin shrugged. Some are over eight feet tall, he said, and othersunder four feet. He used the Tr'en measurement scale, of course; itdidn't seem necessary, though, to mention that both extremes of heightwere at the circus-freak level. Then there is a group of humans, hewent on, who are never more than a foot and a half in height, andusually less than that—approximately nine or ten inches. We callthese children , he volunteered helpfully. Approximately? the Ruler growled. We ask for precision here, hesaid. We are scientific men. We are exact. Korvin nodded hurriedly. Our race is more ... more approximate, hesaid apologetically. Slipshod, the Ruler muttered. Undoubtedly, Korvin agreed politely. I'll try to do the best I canfor you. You will answer my questions, the Ruler said, with exactitude. Hepaused, frowning slightly. You landed your ship on this planet, hewent on. Why? My job required it, Korvin said. A clumsy lie, the Ruler said. The ship crashed; our examinationsprove that beyond any doubt. True, Korvin said. And it is your job to crash your ship? the Ruler said. Wasteful. Korvin shrugged again. What I say is true, he announced. Do youhave tests for such matters? We do, the Ruler told him. We are an exact and a scientific race. Amachine for the testing of truth has been adjusted to your physiology.It will be attached to you. Korvin looked around and saw it coming through the door, pushed by twotechnicians. It was large and squat and metallic, and it had wheels,dials, blinking lights, tubes and wires, and a seat with armrests andstraps. It was obviously a form of lie-detector—and Korvin felthimself marveling again at this race. Earth science had nothing tomatch their enormous command of the physical universe; adapting ahypnopædic language-course to an alien being so quickly had beenwonder enough, but adapting the perilously delicate mechanisms thatnecessarily made up any lie-detector machinery was almost a miracle.The Tr'en, under other circumstances, would have been a valuableaddition to the Comity of Nations. Being what they were, though, they could only be a menace. AndKorvin's appreciation of the size of that menace was growing hourly. He hoped the lie-detector had been adjusted correctly. If it showedhim telling an untruth, he wasn't likely to live long, and hisjob—not to mention the strongest personal inclinations—demanded moststrongly that he stay alive. He swallowed hard. But when the technicians forced him down into theseat, buckled straps around him, attached wires and electrodes andelastic bands to him at appropriate places and tightened some finalscrews, he made no resistance. We shall test the machine, the Ruler said. In what room are you? In the Room of the Ruler, Korvin said equably. Are you standing or sitting? I am sitting, Korvin said. Are you a chulad ? the Ruler asked. A chulad was a small nativepet, Korvin knew, something like a greatly magnified deathwatchbeetle. I am not, he said. <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting? I am standing, Korvin said. The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue. Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training. He hoped they were right. The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said. My job required it, Korvin said. The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional? Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said. The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't ended , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time. No, he said. What else does your job entail? the Ruler said. Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive. The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly. I have told the truth, Korvin said. But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said. Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler? I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean right-saying —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called. Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry. The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling— chulad-like Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere. Korvin devoutly hoped so. <doc-sep>The experts in logic arrived shortly, and in no uncertain terms Korvinwas given to understand that logical paradox was not going to confuseanybody on the planet. The barber who did, or didn't, shave himself,the secretary of the club whose members were secretaries, Achilles andthe tortoise, and all the other lovely paradox-models scattered aroundwere so much primer material for the Tr'en. They can be treatedmathematically, one of the experts, a small emerald-green being, toldKorvin thinly. Of course, you would not understand the mathematics.But that is not important. You need only understand that we cannot beconfused by such means. Good, Korvin said. The experts blinked. Good? he said. Naturally, Korvin said in a friendly tone. The expert frowned horribly, showing all of his teeth. Korvin did hisbest not to react. Your plan is a failure, the expert said, and youcall this a good thing. You can mean only that your plan is differentfrom the one we are occupied with. True, Korvin said. There was a short silence. The expert beamed. He examined theindicators of the lie-detector with great care. What is your plan?he said at last, in a conspiratorial whisper. To answer your questions, truthfully and logically, Korvin said. The silence this time was even longer. The machine says that you tell the truth, the experts said at last,in a awed tone. Thus, you must be a traitor to your native planet.You must want us to conquer your planet, and have come here secretlyto aid us. Korvin was very glad that wasn't a question. It was, after all, theonly logical deduction. But it happened to be wrong. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Korvin sits in a cell after crash-landing on the planet of the Tr'en, which is populated by an extremely logical and intelligent humanoid race. Due to the speed of their scientific and technological advancements, the Comity of Planets will soon extend them an invitation, but Korvin believes they will not accept their offer. As a representative of Earth Central, he has been sent to Tr'en in order to find a way to prevent its people from marauding and settling other planets. In the days since Korvin's crash, the prison guards provide him with food and teach him the local language through drug hypnosis. He describes the language as "stiff and slightly awkward" but acknowledges its logical, meticulous construction. After several days imprisoned, a Tr'en named Didyak visits Korvin and informs him that he will be brought to The Ruler. When Korvin meets The Ruler--a massive, formidable Tr'en--he answers his questions to the best of his ability with respect to the logical constructions of the language. Korvin describes the physical appearance of adult humans as well as children, and The Ruler appears confused by the variations in height. The Ruler keeps emphasizing the importance of speaking with exactitude when communicating with the Tr'en. When Korvin claims his purpose on the planet was to crash-land his ship, The Ruler scoffs and orders him connected to a lie-detector machine for the duration of the questioning. After adjusting the lie-detector machine to Korvin's physiology, The Ruler continues his interrogation of Korvin, attempting to determine the true purpose of his mission on Tr'en. Adopting the Tr'en mode of providing extremely logical answers, Korvin claims his mission is to "stay alive", which frustrates The Ruler; he claims Korvin is trying to confuse him, so he calls upon his experts to help determine if the machine is faulty and analyze Korvin's responses. As the Tr'en broach the subject of Earth, they start to ask questions about its name, location, and finally, governance. Because the Tr'en receive and obey orders from one Ruler, they are completely perplexed by the concept of democracy where conflicting interests may contribute to a system of self-governance. In fact, they are so stumped by Korvin's responses that they continue this line of questioning for three days and are unsatisfied by what they consider to be his illogical, but truthful answers. On the third day, Korvin takes advantage of their lack of mental insight to escape prison and sends a message back to Earth Central informing them that he has accomplished his mission because the Tr'en will never be able to solve the problem of democracy.

Who is the Ruler and what is his role in the story? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>The Room of the Ruler was large, square and excessively brown. Thewalls were dark-brown, the furnishings—a single great chair, severalkneeling-benches and a small table near the chair—were light-brown,of some metallic substance, and even the drapes were tan. It was,Korvin decided, much too much of a bad idea, even when the colorcontrast of the Tr'en themselves were figured in. The Ruler himself, a Tr'en over seven feet tall and correspondinglybroad, sat in the great chair, his four fingers tapping gently on thetable near him, staring at Korvin and his guards. The guards stood oneither side of their captive, looking as impassive as jade statues,six and a half feet high. Korvin wasn't attempting to escape. He wasn't pleading with the Ruler.He wasn't defying the Ruler, either. He was just answering questions. The Tr'en liked to have everything clear. They were a logical race.The Ruler had started with Korvin's race, his name, his sex—ifany—and whether or not his appearance were normal for humanity. Korvin was answering the last question. Some men are larger than Iam, he said, and some are smaller. Within what limits? Korvin shrugged. Some are over eight feet tall, he said, and othersunder four feet. He used the Tr'en measurement scale, of course; itdidn't seem necessary, though, to mention that both extremes of heightwere at the circus-freak level. Then there is a group of humans, hewent on, who are never more than a foot and a half in height, andusually less than that—approximately nine or ten inches. We callthese children , he volunteered helpfully. Approximately? the Ruler growled. We ask for precision here, hesaid. We are scientific men. We are exact. Korvin nodded hurriedly. Our race is more ... more approximate, hesaid apologetically. Slipshod, the Ruler muttered. Undoubtedly, Korvin agreed politely. I'll try to do the best I canfor you. You will answer my questions, the Ruler said, with exactitude. Hepaused, frowning slightly. You landed your ship on this planet, hewent on. Why? My job required it, Korvin said. A clumsy lie, the Ruler said. The ship crashed; our examinationsprove that beyond any doubt. True, Korvin said. And it is your job to crash your ship? the Ruler said. Wasteful. Korvin shrugged again. What I say is true, he announced. Do youhave tests for such matters? We do, the Ruler told him. We are an exact and a scientific race. Amachine for the testing of truth has been adjusted to your physiology.It will be attached to you. Korvin looked around and saw it coming through the door, pushed by twotechnicians. It was large and squat and metallic, and it had wheels,dials, blinking lights, tubes and wires, and a seat with armrests andstraps. It was obviously a form of lie-detector—and Korvin felthimself marveling again at this race. Earth science had nothing tomatch their enormous command of the physical universe; adapting ahypnopædic language-course to an alien being so quickly had beenwonder enough, but adapting the perilously delicate mechanisms thatnecessarily made up any lie-detector machinery was almost a miracle.The Tr'en, under other circumstances, would have been a valuableaddition to the Comity of Nations. Being what they were, though, they could only be a menace. AndKorvin's appreciation of the size of that menace was growing hourly. He hoped the lie-detector had been adjusted correctly. If it showedhim telling an untruth, he wasn't likely to live long, and hisjob—not to mention the strongest personal inclinations—demanded moststrongly that he stay alive. He swallowed hard. But when the technicians forced him down into theseat, buckled straps around him, attached wires and electrodes andelastic bands to him at appropriate places and tightened some finalscrews, he made no resistance. We shall test the machine, the Ruler said. In what room are you? In the Room of the Ruler, Korvin said equably. Are you standing or sitting? I am sitting, Korvin said. Are you a chulad ? the Ruler asked. A chulad was a small nativepet, Korvin knew, something like a greatly magnified deathwatchbeetle. I am not, he said. <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting? I am standing, Korvin said. The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue. Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training. He hoped they were right. The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said. My job required it, Korvin said. The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional? Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said. The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't ended , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time. No, he said. What else does your job entail? the Ruler said. Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive. The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly. I have told the truth, Korvin said. But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said. Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler? I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean right-saying —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called. Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry. The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling— chulad-like Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere. Korvin devoutly hoped so. <doc-sep>The experts in logic arrived shortly, and in no uncertain terms Korvinwas given to understand that logical paradox was not going to confuseanybody on the planet. The barber who did, or didn't, shave himself,the secretary of the club whose members were secretaries, Achilles andthe tortoise, and all the other lovely paradox-models scattered aroundwere so much primer material for the Tr'en. They can be treatedmathematically, one of the experts, a small emerald-green being, toldKorvin thinly. Of course, you would not understand the mathematics.But that is not important. You need only understand that we cannot beconfused by such means. Good, Korvin said. The experts blinked. Good? he said. Naturally, Korvin said in a friendly tone. The expert frowned horribly, showing all of his teeth. Korvin did hisbest not to react. Your plan is a failure, the expert said, and youcall this a good thing. You can mean only that your plan is differentfrom the one we are occupied with. True, Korvin said. There was a short silence. The expert beamed. He examined theindicators of the lie-detector with great care. What is your plan?he said at last, in a conspiratorial whisper. To answer your questions, truthfully and logically, Korvin said. The silence this time was even longer. The machine says that you tell the truth, the experts said at last,in a awed tone. Thus, you must be a traitor to your native planet.You must want us to conquer your planet, and have come here secretlyto aid us. Korvin was very glad that wasn't a question. It was, after all, theonly logical deduction. But it happened to be wrong. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is the Ruler and what is his role in the story?

The Ruler is the sole governor of the Tr'en race. Characterized by their humanoid appearance, Tr'en are tall, greenish, and have four fingers. The Ruler himself is taller than most at seven-feet tall and is quite broad. The Tr'en are very logical and speak in a language almost mathematical in its clarity and precision. The Ruler epitomizes Tr'en commitment to logical inquiry. At first, The Ruler grills Korvin on his name, his race, his sex, and whether or not his appearance is normal for humanity. When Korvin's response regarding the variations in height amongst human adults and children, The Ruler is confounded. He also disbelieves Korvin's response regarding his purpose on Tr'en. Because of this, The Ruler orders Korvin to be hooked up to a lie detector. After adjusting the detector to Korvin's physiology, Korvin launches into a line of questioning regarding planet Earth, specifically the governance of it. When the experts monitoring the lie detector's reactions to Korvin's answers become baffled by his truth-telling in the face of seemingly illogical answers, The Ruler seemingly throws in the towel and lets the experts investigate the idea that Korvin is either lying or the machine is broken. In reality, Korvin has exploited a flaw in their logic--although they are masters of science, they have not mastered mental science. Only a grasp of mental science would allow the Tr'en to fathom humankind's embrace of democracy.

What is the significance of translation in the story? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>The Room of the Ruler was large, square and excessively brown. Thewalls were dark-brown, the furnishings—a single great chair, severalkneeling-benches and a small table near the chair—were light-brown,of some metallic substance, and even the drapes were tan. It was,Korvin decided, much too much of a bad idea, even when the colorcontrast of the Tr'en themselves were figured in. The Ruler himself, a Tr'en over seven feet tall and correspondinglybroad, sat in the great chair, his four fingers tapping gently on thetable near him, staring at Korvin and his guards. The guards stood oneither side of their captive, looking as impassive as jade statues,six and a half feet high. Korvin wasn't attempting to escape. He wasn't pleading with the Ruler.He wasn't defying the Ruler, either. He was just answering questions. The Tr'en liked to have everything clear. They were a logical race.The Ruler had started with Korvin's race, his name, his sex—ifany—and whether or not his appearance were normal for humanity. Korvin was answering the last question. Some men are larger than Iam, he said, and some are smaller. Within what limits? Korvin shrugged. Some are over eight feet tall, he said, and othersunder four feet. He used the Tr'en measurement scale, of course; itdidn't seem necessary, though, to mention that both extremes of heightwere at the circus-freak level. Then there is a group of humans, hewent on, who are never more than a foot and a half in height, andusually less than that—approximately nine or ten inches. We callthese children , he volunteered helpfully. Approximately? the Ruler growled. We ask for precision here, hesaid. We are scientific men. We are exact. Korvin nodded hurriedly. Our race is more ... more approximate, hesaid apologetically. Slipshod, the Ruler muttered. Undoubtedly, Korvin agreed politely. I'll try to do the best I canfor you. You will answer my questions, the Ruler said, with exactitude. Hepaused, frowning slightly. You landed your ship on this planet, hewent on. Why? My job required it, Korvin said. A clumsy lie, the Ruler said. The ship crashed; our examinationsprove that beyond any doubt. True, Korvin said. And it is your job to crash your ship? the Ruler said. Wasteful. Korvin shrugged again. What I say is true, he announced. Do youhave tests for such matters? We do, the Ruler told him. We are an exact and a scientific race. Amachine for the testing of truth has been adjusted to your physiology.It will be attached to you. Korvin looked around and saw it coming through the door, pushed by twotechnicians. It was large and squat and metallic, and it had wheels,dials, blinking lights, tubes and wires, and a seat with armrests andstraps. It was obviously a form of lie-detector—and Korvin felthimself marveling again at this race. Earth science had nothing tomatch their enormous command of the physical universe; adapting ahypnopædic language-course to an alien being so quickly had beenwonder enough, but adapting the perilously delicate mechanisms thatnecessarily made up any lie-detector machinery was almost a miracle.The Tr'en, under other circumstances, would have been a valuableaddition to the Comity of Nations. Being what they were, though, they could only be a menace. AndKorvin's appreciation of the size of that menace was growing hourly. He hoped the lie-detector had been adjusted correctly. If it showedhim telling an untruth, he wasn't likely to live long, and hisjob—not to mention the strongest personal inclinations—demanded moststrongly that he stay alive. He swallowed hard. But when the technicians forced him down into theseat, buckled straps around him, attached wires and electrodes andelastic bands to him at appropriate places and tightened some finalscrews, he made no resistance. We shall test the machine, the Ruler said. In what room are you? In the Room of the Ruler, Korvin said equably. Are you standing or sitting? I am sitting, Korvin said. Are you a chulad ? the Ruler asked. A chulad was a small nativepet, Korvin knew, something like a greatly magnified deathwatchbeetle. I am not, he said. <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting? I am standing, Korvin said. The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue. Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training. He hoped they were right. The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said. My job required it, Korvin said. The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional? Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said. The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't ended , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time. No, he said. What else does your job entail? the Ruler said. Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive. The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly. I have told the truth, Korvin said. But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said. Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler? I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean right-saying —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called. Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry. The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling— chulad-like Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere. Korvin devoutly hoped so. <doc-sep>The experts in logic arrived shortly, and in no uncertain terms Korvinwas given to understand that logical paradox was not going to confuseanybody on the planet. The barber who did, or didn't, shave himself,the secretary of the club whose members were secretaries, Achilles andthe tortoise, and all the other lovely paradox-models scattered aroundwere so much primer material for the Tr'en. They can be treatedmathematically, one of the experts, a small emerald-green being, toldKorvin thinly. Of course, you would not understand the mathematics.But that is not important. You need only understand that we cannot beconfused by such means. Good, Korvin said. The experts blinked. Good? he said. Naturally, Korvin said in a friendly tone. The expert frowned horribly, showing all of his teeth. Korvin did hisbest not to react. Your plan is a failure, the expert said, and youcall this a good thing. You can mean only that your plan is differentfrom the one we are occupied with. True, Korvin said. There was a short silence. The expert beamed. He examined theindicators of the lie-detector with great care. What is your plan?he said at last, in a conspiratorial whisper. To answer your questions, truthfully and logically, Korvin said. The silence this time was even longer. The machine says that you tell the truth, the experts said at last,in a awed tone. Thus, you must be a traitor to your native planet.You must want us to conquer your planet, and have come here secretlyto aid us. Korvin was very glad that wasn't a question. It was, after all, theonly logical deduction. But it happened to be wrong. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of translation in the story?

After Korvin crash-lands on Tr’en, he is captured and imprisoned for several days before he wakes up. During that time, the prison guards teach him the Tr’en language via hypnopædic language instruction. He learns the language is closer to mathematical metalanguage and is centered in logic and clarity. As a result, Korvin has to adjust the way he speaks in order to make sure to convey what he really means in his conversations with Didyak and when he responds to The Ruler's line of questioning. Because the Tr'en language requires perfect logic, Korvin's answers to The Ruler's questions confuse The Ruler and his group of experts that examine the lie detector and confer to determine if Korvin is telling the truth or beating the system somehow. Translation ultimately saves Korvin since the Tr'en are unable to logically process the concept of democracy, and they will spend an endless amount of time trying to solve that problem instead of advancing to the point where they will maraud and settle others in the Comity of Planets.

Who is Didyak and what is his role in the story? [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>The Room of the Ruler was large, square and excessively brown. Thewalls were dark-brown, the furnishings—a single great chair, severalkneeling-benches and a small table near the chair—were light-brown,of some metallic substance, and even the drapes were tan. It was,Korvin decided, much too much of a bad idea, even when the colorcontrast of the Tr'en themselves were figured in. The Ruler himself, a Tr'en over seven feet tall and correspondinglybroad, sat in the great chair, his four fingers tapping gently on thetable near him, staring at Korvin and his guards. The guards stood oneither side of their captive, looking as impassive as jade statues,six and a half feet high. Korvin wasn't attempting to escape. He wasn't pleading with the Ruler.He wasn't defying the Ruler, either. He was just answering questions. The Tr'en liked to have everything clear. They were a logical race.The Ruler had started with Korvin's race, his name, his sex—ifany—and whether or not his appearance were normal for humanity. Korvin was answering the last question. Some men are larger than Iam, he said, and some are smaller. Within what limits? Korvin shrugged. Some are over eight feet tall, he said, and othersunder four feet. He used the Tr'en measurement scale, of course; itdidn't seem necessary, though, to mention that both extremes of heightwere at the circus-freak level. Then there is a group of humans, hewent on, who are never more than a foot and a half in height, andusually less than that—approximately nine or ten inches. We callthese children , he volunteered helpfully. Approximately? the Ruler growled. We ask for precision here, hesaid. We are scientific men. We are exact. Korvin nodded hurriedly. Our race is more ... more approximate, hesaid apologetically. Slipshod, the Ruler muttered. Undoubtedly, Korvin agreed politely. I'll try to do the best I canfor you. You will answer my questions, the Ruler said, with exactitude. Hepaused, frowning slightly. You landed your ship on this planet, hewent on. Why? My job required it, Korvin said. A clumsy lie, the Ruler said. The ship crashed; our examinationsprove that beyond any doubt. True, Korvin said. And it is your job to crash your ship? the Ruler said. Wasteful. Korvin shrugged again. What I say is true, he announced. Do youhave tests for such matters? We do, the Ruler told him. We are an exact and a scientific race. Amachine for the testing of truth has been adjusted to your physiology.It will be attached to you. Korvin looked around and saw it coming through the door, pushed by twotechnicians. It was large and squat and metallic, and it had wheels,dials, blinking lights, tubes and wires, and a seat with armrests andstraps. It was obviously a form of lie-detector—and Korvin felthimself marveling again at this race. Earth science had nothing tomatch their enormous command of the physical universe; adapting ahypnopædic language-course to an alien being so quickly had beenwonder enough, but adapting the perilously delicate mechanisms thatnecessarily made up any lie-detector machinery was almost a miracle.The Tr'en, under other circumstances, would have been a valuableaddition to the Comity of Nations. Being what they were, though, they could only be a menace. AndKorvin's appreciation of the size of that menace was growing hourly. He hoped the lie-detector had been adjusted correctly. If it showedhim telling an untruth, he wasn't likely to live long, and hisjob—not to mention the strongest personal inclinations—demanded moststrongly that he stay alive. He swallowed hard. But when the technicians forced him down into theseat, buckled straps around him, attached wires and electrodes andelastic bands to him at appropriate places and tightened some finalscrews, he made no resistance. We shall test the machine, the Ruler said. In what room are you? In the Room of the Ruler, Korvin said equably. Are you standing or sitting? I am sitting, Korvin said. Are you a chulad ? the Ruler asked. A chulad was a small nativepet, Korvin knew, something like a greatly magnified deathwatchbeetle. I am not, he said. <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting? I am standing, Korvin said. The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue. Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training. He hoped they were right. The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said. My job required it, Korvin said. The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional? Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said. The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't ended , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time. No, he said. What else does your job entail? the Ruler said. Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive. The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly. I have told the truth, Korvin said. But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said. Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler? I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean right-saying —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called. Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry. The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling— chulad-like Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere. Korvin devoutly hoped so. <doc-sep>The experts in logic arrived shortly, and in no uncertain terms Korvinwas given to understand that logical paradox was not going to confuseanybody on the planet. The barber who did, or didn't, shave himself,the secretary of the club whose members were secretaries, Achilles andthe tortoise, and all the other lovely paradox-models scattered aroundwere so much primer material for the Tr'en. They can be treatedmathematically, one of the experts, a small emerald-green being, toldKorvin thinly. Of course, you would not understand the mathematics.But that is not important. You need only understand that we cannot beconfused by such means. Good, Korvin said. The experts blinked. Good? he said. Naturally, Korvin said in a friendly tone. The expert frowned horribly, showing all of his teeth. Korvin did hisbest not to react. Your plan is a failure, the expert said, and youcall this a good thing. You can mean only that your plan is differentfrom the one we are occupied with. True, Korvin said. There was a short silence. The expert beamed. He examined theindicators of the lie-detector with great care. What is your plan?he said at last, in a conspiratorial whisper. To answer your questions, truthfully and logically, Korvin said. The silence this time was even longer. The machine says that you tell the truth, the experts said at last,in a awed tone. Thus, you must be a traitor to your native planet.You must want us to conquer your planet, and have come here secretlyto aid us. Korvin was very glad that wasn't a question. It was, after all, theonly logical deduction. But it happened to be wrong. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Didyak and what is his role in the story?

Didyak is a Tr'en from the planet Tr'en, and he is tall, slightly green, vaguely humanoid, and has cat-like pupils. Didyak is the first Tr'en that Korvin encounters after waking up in the days following his crash. Having been educated in the Tr'en language through hypnosis, Korvin is able to communicate with Didyak, and he does so, making sure to address with the utmost respect according to Tr'en customs. Didyak carries a small weapon that is translucent and looks like a pistol; he also carries a small knife attached to his belt. Didyak's speech is stiff and slightly awkward, much like the rest of the Tr'en, and he speaks with very careful attention paid to the construction of each sentence in order to express perfect logic. Like the other Tr'en, Didyak also has fifty-eight pointy teeth, at which Korvin tries not to stare. The Ruler has sent Didyak to bring Korvin for an audience with him so that he may learn more about Earth.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> LOST IN TRANSLATION By LARRY M. HARRIS In language translation, you may get a literally accurateword-for-word translation ... but miss the meaning entirely. And inspace-type translation ... the effect may be the same! Illustrated by Schoenherr The cell had been put together more efficiently than any Korvin hadever been in. But that was only natural, he told himself sadly; theTr'en were an efficient people. All the preliminary reports had agreedon that; their efficiency, as a matter of fact, was what had madeKorvin's arrival a necessity. They were well into the atomic era, andwere on the verge of developing space travel. Before long they'd besettling the other planets of their system, and then the nearer stars.Faster-than-light travel couldn't be far away, for the magnificentlyefficient physical scientists of the Tr'en—and that would mean, inthe ordinary course of events, an invitation to join the Comity ofPlanets. An invitation, the Comity was sure, which the Tr'en would not accept. Korvin stretched out on the cell's single bunk, a rigid affair whichwas hardly meant for comfort, and sighed. He'd had three days ofisolation, with nothing to do but explore the resources of his ownmind. He'd tried some of the ancient Rhine experiments, but that wasno good; he still didn't show any particular psi talents. He couldn'tunlock the cell door with his unaided mind; he couldn't even alter theprobability of a single dust-mote's Brownian path through the somewhatsmelly air. Nor could he disappear from his cell and appear, as if bymagic, several miles away near the slightly-damaged hulk of his ship,to the wonder and amazement of his Tr'en captors. He could do, as a matter of fact, precisely nothing. He wished quietlythat the Tr'en had seen fit to give him a pack of cards, or a book, oreven a folder of tourist pictures. The Wonders of Tr'en, according toall the advance reports, were likely to be pretty boring, but they'dhave been better than nothing. In any decently-run jail, he told himself with indignation, therewould at least have been other prisoners to talk to. But on Tr'enKorvin was all alone. True, every night the guards came in and gave him a concentratedlesson in the local language, but Korvin failed to get much pleasureout of that, being unconscious at the time. But now he was equipped todiscuss almost anything from philosophy to plumbing, but there wasnobody to discuss it with. He changed position on the bunk and staredat the walls. The Tr'en were efficient; there weren't even anyimperfections in the smooth surface to distract him. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry; his captors had left him with afull stock of food concentrates. But he was almightily bored, and about ready to tell anything toanyone, just for the chance at a little conversation. As he reached this dismal conclusion, the cell door opened. Korvin gotup off the bunk in a hurry and spun around to face his visitor. The Tr'en was tall, and slightly green. He looked, as all the Tr'en did, vaguely humanoid—that is, if youdon't bother to examine him closely. Life in the universe appeared tobe rigidly limited to humanoid types on oxygen planets; Korvin didn'tknow why, and neither did anybody else. There were a lot of theories,but none that accounted for all the facts satisfactorily. Korvinreally didn't care about it; it was none of his business. The Tr'en regarded him narrowly through catlike pupils. You areKorvin, he said. It was a ritual, Korvin had learned. You are of the Tr'en, hereplied. The green being nodded. I am Didyak of the Tr'en, he said. Amenities over with, he relaxedslightly—but no more than slightly—and came into the cell, closingthe door behind him. Korvin thought of jumping the Tr'en, but decidedquickly against it. He was a captive, and it was unwise to assume thathis captors had no more resources than the ones he saw: a smalltranslucent pistollike affair in a holster at the Tr'en's side, and asmall knife in a sheath at the belt. Those Korvin could deal with; butthere might be almost anything else hidden and ready to fire on him. What do you want with me? Korvin said. The Tr'en speech—apparentlythere was only one language on the planet—was stiff and slightlyawkward, but easily enough learned under drug hypnosis; it was themost rigorously logical construction of its kind Korvin had ever comeacross. It reminded him of some of the mathematical metalanguages he'ddealt with back on Earth, in training; but it was more closely andcarefully constructed than even those marvels. I want nothing with you, Didyak said, leaning against thedoor-frame. You have other questions? Korvin sighed. What are you doing here, then? he asked. Asconversation, it wasn't very choice; but it was, he admitted, betterthan solitude. I am leaning against the door, Didyak said. The Tr'en literalistapproach to the smallest problems of everyday living was a little hardto get the hang of, Korvin told himself bitterly. He thought for asecond. Why did you come to me? he said at last. Didyak beamed at him. The sight was remarkably unpleasant, involvingas it did the disclosure of the Tr'en fifty-eight teeth, mostlypointed. Korvin stared back impassively. I have been ordered to cometo you, Didyak said, by the Ruler. The Ruler wishes to talk withyou. It wasn't quite talk; that was a general word in the Tr'en language,and Didyak had used a specific meaning, roughly: gain informationfrom, by peaceful and vocal means. Korvin filed it away for futurereference. Why did the Ruler not come to me? Korvin asked. The Ruler is the Ruler, Didyak said, slightly discomfited. You areto go to him. Such is his command. Korvin shrugged, sighed and smoothed back his hair. I obey thecommand of the Ruler, he said—another ritual. Everybody obeyed thecommand of the Ruler. If you didn't, you never had a second chance totry. But Korvin meant exactly what he'd said. He was going to obey thecommands of the Ruler of the Tr'en—and remove the Tr'en threat fromthe rest of the galaxy forever. That, after all, was his job. <doc-sep>The Room of the Ruler was large, square and excessively brown. Thewalls were dark-brown, the furnishings—a single great chair, severalkneeling-benches and a small table near the chair—were light-brown,of some metallic substance, and even the drapes were tan. It was,Korvin decided, much too much of a bad idea, even when the colorcontrast of the Tr'en themselves were figured in. The Ruler himself, a Tr'en over seven feet tall and correspondinglybroad, sat in the great chair, his four fingers tapping gently on thetable near him, staring at Korvin and his guards. The guards stood oneither side of their captive, looking as impassive as jade statues,six and a half feet high. Korvin wasn't attempting to escape. He wasn't pleading with the Ruler.He wasn't defying the Ruler, either. He was just answering questions. The Tr'en liked to have everything clear. They were a logical race.The Ruler had started with Korvin's race, his name, his sex—ifany—and whether or not his appearance were normal for humanity. Korvin was answering the last question. Some men are larger than Iam, he said, and some are smaller. Within what limits? Korvin shrugged. Some are over eight feet tall, he said, and othersunder four feet. He used the Tr'en measurement scale, of course; itdidn't seem necessary, though, to mention that both extremes of heightwere at the circus-freak level. Then there is a group of humans, hewent on, who are never more than a foot and a half in height, andusually less than that—approximately nine or ten inches. We callthese children , he volunteered helpfully. Approximately? the Ruler growled. We ask for precision here, hesaid. We are scientific men. We are exact. Korvin nodded hurriedly. Our race is more ... more approximate, hesaid apologetically. Slipshod, the Ruler muttered. Undoubtedly, Korvin agreed politely. I'll try to do the best I canfor you. You will answer my questions, the Ruler said, with exactitude. Hepaused, frowning slightly. You landed your ship on this planet, hewent on. Why? My job required it, Korvin said. A clumsy lie, the Ruler said. The ship crashed; our examinationsprove that beyond any doubt. True, Korvin said. And it is your job to crash your ship? the Ruler said. Wasteful. Korvin shrugged again. What I say is true, he announced. Do youhave tests for such matters? We do, the Ruler told him. We are an exact and a scientific race. Amachine for the testing of truth has been adjusted to your physiology.It will be attached to you. Korvin looked around and saw it coming through the door, pushed by twotechnicians. It was large and squat and metallic, and it had wheels,dials, blinking lights, tubes and wires, and a seat with armrests andstraps. It was obviously a form of lie-detector—and Korvin felthimself marveling again at this race. Earth science had nothing tomatch their enormous command of the physical universe; adapting ahypnopædic language-course to an alien being so quickly had beenwonder enough, but adapting the perilously delicate mechanisms thatnecessarily made up any lie-detector machinery was almost a miracle.The Tr'en, under other circumstances, would have been a valuableaddition to the Comity of Nations. Being what they were, though, they could only be a menace. AndKorvin's appreciation of the size of that menace was growing hourly. He hoped the lie-detector had been adjusted correctly. If it showedhim telling an untruth, he wasn't likely to live long, and hisjob—not to mention the strongest personal inclinations—demanded moststrongly that he stay alive. He swallowed hard. But when the technicians forced him down into theseat, buckled straps around him, attached wires and electrodes andelastic bands to him at appropriate places and tightened some finalscrews, he made no resistance. We shall test the machine, the Ruler said. In what room are you? In the Room of the Ruler, Korvin said equably. Are you standing or sitting? I am sitting, Korvin said. Are you a chulad ? the Ruler asked. A chulad was a small nativepet, Korvin knew, something like a greatly magnified deathwatchbeetle. I am not, he said. <doc-sep>The Ruler looked to his technicians for a signal, and nodded onreceiving it. You will tell an untruth now, he said. Are youstanding or sitting? I am standing, Korvin said. The technicians gave another signal. The Ruler looked, in his frowningmanner, reasonably satisfied. The machine, he announced, has beenadjusted satisfactorily to your physiology. The questioning will nowcontinue. Korvin swallowed again. The test hadn't really seemed extensive enoughto him. But, after all, the Tr'en knew their business, better thananyone else could know it. They had the technique and the logic andthe training. He hoped they were right. The Ruler was frowning at him. Korvin did his best to look receptive.Why did you land your ship on this planet? the Ruler said. My job required it, Korvin said. The Ruler nodded. Your job is to crash your ship, he said. It iswasteful but the machines tell me it is true. Very well, then; weshall find out more about your job. Was the crash intentional? Korvin looked sober. Yes, he said. The Ruler blinked. Very well, he said. Was your job ended when theship crashed? The Tr'en word, of course, wasn't ended , nor did itmean exactly that. As nearly as Korvin could make out, it meantdisposed of for all time. No, he said. What else does your job entail? the Ruler said. Korvin decided to throw his first spoke into the wheel. Stayingalive. The Ruler roared. Do not waste time with the obvious! he shouted.Do not try to trick us; we are a logical and scientific race! Answercorrectly. I have told the truth, Korvin said. But it is not—not the truth we want, the Ruler said. Korvin shrugged. I replied to your question, he said. I did notknow that there was more than one kind of truth. Surely the truth isthe truth, just as the Ruler is the Ruler? I— The Ruler stopped himself in mid-roar. You try to confuse theRuler, he said at last, in an approximation of his usual one. Butthe Ruler will not be confused. We have experts in matters oflogic—the Tr'en word seemed to mean right-saying —who will advisethe Ruler. They will be called. Korvin's guards were standing around doing nothing of importance nowthat their captor was strapped down in the lie-detector. The Rulergestured and they went out the door in a hurry. The Ruler looked down at Korvin. You will find that you cannot trickus, he said. You will find that such fiddling— chulad-like Korvintranslated—attempts will get you nowhere. Korvin devoutly hoped so. <doc-sep>The experts in logic arrived shortly, and in no uncertain terms Korvinwas given to understand that logical paradox was not going to confuseanybody on the planet. The barber who did, or didn't, shave himself,the secretary of the club whose members were secretaries, Achilles andthe tortoise, and all the other lovely paradox-models scattered aroundwere so much primer material for the Tr'en. They can be treatedmathematically, one of the experts, a small emerald-green being, toldKorvin thinly. Of course, you would not understand the mathematics.But that is not important. You need only understand that we cannot beconfused by such means. Good, Korvin said. The experts blinked. Good? he said. Naturally, Korvin said in a friendly tone. The expert frowned horribly, showing all of his teeth. Korvin did hisbest not to react. Your plan is a failure, the expert said, and youcall this a good thing. You can mean only that your plan is differentfrom the one we are occupied with. True, Korvin said. There was a short silence. The expert beamed. He examined theindicators of the lie-detector with great care. What is your plan?he said at last, in a conspiratorial whisper. To answer your questions, truthfully and logically, Korvin said. The silence this time was even longer. The machine says that you tell the truth, the experts said at last,in a awed tone. Thus, you must be a traitor to your native planet.You must want us to conquer your planet, and have come here secretlyto aid us. Korvin was very glad that wasn't a question. It was, after all, theonly logical deduction. But it happened to be wrong. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

Korvin works for Earth Central and flies to the planet Tr'en on its behalf. Tr'en is a planet populated by the Tr'en race, a tall humanoid people with greenish skin, fifty-eight pointy teeth, and a unique language centered on the idea of logic. They are an extremely advanced race in terms of science and technology and others in the Comity of Planets consider them a possible threat seeing as they are in the atomic era and are on the brink of developing space travel. After Korvin crash-lands on Tr'en he sits in a prison cell noted for its smelly air, and, more importantly, its efficiency of design. Besides the Tr'en, the only known living creature on Tr'en is the chulad, a small creature that looks like a large deathwatch beetle. The Room of the Ruler is large and square, and everything inside the room is brown including the walls, furniture, and drapes. In terms of furniture, Korvin observes a large chair where The Ruler sits, many kneeling benches, and a small table near the chair. When two technicians bring in a lie detector test for Korvin, he notices that it is large, squat, and metallic and has wheels, dials, blinking lights, tubes, wires, and a seat with armrests and straps. The technicians use these straps to tie Korvin into the machine.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a spaceship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. Theywere the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then herealized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frownof concentration marred her regular features. He turned around. On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving towardthem. She said: Get down! Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on herstomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes staredafter her stupidly. Get down! she reiterated in a furious voice. He let himself to his hands and knees. Ouch! he said. He felt likehe was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttledafter the girl. What's wrong? The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. Centaurs! she said. Ididn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead whichleads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reachthe hills we'll be safe. Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun? Well, personally, she replied, I never saw a Centaur until I waswrecked on this asteroid. She reached the ravine, crawled headforemost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for thehills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her. Why won't the Centaurs follow us into the hills? he panted. Too rough. They're like horses, she said. Nothing but a goat couldget around in the hills. The gulley, he saw, was deepening into a respectable canyon, then agorge. In half a mile, the walls towered above them. A narrow ribbonof sky was visible overhead. Yellow fern-like plants sprouted from thecrevices and floor of the canyon. They flushed a small furry creature from behind a bush. As it spedaway, it resembled a cottontail of Earth. The girl whipped back herarm, flung the spear. It transfixed the rodent. She picked it up, tiedit to her waist. Jonathan gaped. Such strength and accuracy astoundedhim. He thought, amazons and centaurs. He thought, but this is the year3372; not the time of ancient Greece. The canyon bore to the left. It grew rougher, the walls moreprecipitate. Jonathan limped to a halt. High boots and breeches, theuniform of Universal's space pilots, hadn't been designed for walking.Hold on, he said. He felt in his pockets, withdrew an empty cigarettepackage, crumpled it and hurled it to the ground. You got a cigarette? he asked without much hope. The girl shook her head. We ran out of tobacco the first few months wewere here. Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship. Where are you going? cried Ann in alarm. He said, I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at thefreighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke. No! She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of hergrip. They'd kill you, she said. I can sneak back, he insisted stubbornly. They might loot the ship.I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burleytobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it onGanymede. No! He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmlydetached her hand. The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.We are going to the camp, she said. Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out fromunder her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away. A voice shouted: What's going on there? <doc-sep>He paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running towardthem from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She wasbarefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped aroundher sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, herbrown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a tablecloth at one time in its history. A man! she breathed. By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's aman! Don't let him get away! cried Ann. Hilda! the brunette shrieked. A man! It's a man! A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed offwarily. Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: Don't let him get away! Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the wayhe had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of thecanyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around thebend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him. Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheerweight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him upbodily, started up the canyon chanting: He was a rocket riding daddyfrom Mars. He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago. Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in thespaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose hadbeen broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze ofhis left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept frommortification. He said, Put me down. I'll walk. You won't try to get away? said Ann. No, he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while beingheld aloft by four barbarous young women. Let him down, said Ann. We can catch him, anyway, if he makes abreak. Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged betweentwo husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the easewith which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no lightweight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across theplains. He wished he was a centaur. The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathanpicked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. Don't be afraid, advisedone of his captors. Just don't look down. I'm not afraid, said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrowledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out fromunder him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening momenthe thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied arope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the toplike a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it. The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlookingthe prairie. Look! cried Ann pointing over the edge. A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers upthey resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical tohis own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses. Centaurs! Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep>As the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courageto glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. Shelooked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seizeda whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. Shecaught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned hisgaze to his plate. Olga said: Hey, Sultan. He shuddered, but looked up questioningly. She said, How's the fish? Good, he mumbled between a mouthful. Where did you get it? Caught it, said Olga. The stream's full of 'em. I'll take youfishing tomorrow. She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on abone. Heaven forbid, he said. How about coming with me to gather fruit? cried the green-eyedblonde; you great big handsome man. Or me? cried another. And the table was in an uproar. The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the tableuntil the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she wascalled Billy. Quiet! She shrieked in her loud strident voice. Let him be. He can'tgo anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needsrest. She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. Howabout some roast? she said. No. He pushed back his plate with a sigh. If I only had a smoke. Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. Isn't that just like a man? I wouldn't know, said the green-eyed blonde. I've forgotten whatthey're like. Billy said, How badly wrecked is your ship? It's strewn all over the landscape, he replied sleepily. Is there any chance of patching it up? He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, hewanted to sleep. What? he said. Is there any possibility of repairing your ship? repeated Billy. Not outside the space docks. They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relaxthe barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. Themovement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpoweringlassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes. You look exhausted, said Ann. Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. Just tired, hemumbled. Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars. Indeedit was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. Hiseyelids drooped lower and lower. First it's tobacco, said Olga; now he wants to sleep. Twenty-sevengirls and he wants to sleep. He is asleep, said the green-eyed blonde. <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms. Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed. Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off. At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope. Cut off whose feet? he cried in alarm. Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots. Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep. Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years. The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped. He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued. As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him. How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him. Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved. Ooof! he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen. Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve. Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice. They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools. Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve. She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you. Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles. I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt. He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned. Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're all glad to hear that! <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco? They glanced at each other in perplexity. I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back. What? cried the three explorers in one breath. I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes. But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then! Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes. Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of women . Jonathan laughed outright. You are sure you won't return, young man? He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them. Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come. Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Jonathan Fawkes dropped off the only member of his crew on Mars after he got space sickness, so he was alone on the journey to Jupiter. He had been charged with dropping off tobacco seed to see if they could cultivate it on the colonies in Jupiter. However, along the way, he got tired at the wheel of the ship, and, during his nap, crashed into an asteroid. When he awoke, a beautiful blonde woman named Ann was standing over him. They introduce themselves, and she explains that she’s one of the 27 female survivors of their crash over three years ago. Ann sees a horde of centaurs coming over the plains, so she and Jonathan crawl to the foothills, where they can’t be followed. She spears a creature along the way and hooks it on her belt. Jonathan attempts to escape, as he’s uncomfortable around women and wants a cigarette, but she takes him down. They run into nine more women who pin him to the ground. They start to carry him the four miles back to their base, but he asks to walk instead as he’s humiliated. They trudge through the foothills, only stopping once to throw stones at the pestering centaurs, before finally reaching home. They treat Jonathan like a king, pulling out a chair for him at the table, and endlessly complimenting him. They eat inside the dining room of their wrecked ship, and Jonathan watches the wild, Amazonian-like women in horror. Their leader, a big woman named Billy, halts all the flirting and tells Jonathan that he needs to rest in order to feel better. After his belly’s full, he quickly falls asleep, and they carry him upstairs to bed, attempting to take off his shoes which he refuses. The next morning, he wakes up and walks outside with a cane, exaggerating his injuries so as to be treated better. He sits beneath a tree and is soon greeted by Ann. She grabs him and they make to embrace but are caught by the rest of the girls. Billy splits them up and says it’s time to figure out who gets him. The women fight and argue their cases, and Jonathan slips away, running back to his ship. Another cruiser is sat down next to his own, the Interstellar Cosmography Society scrawled on its side. He meets Dr. Boynton and another man who offer to rescue him. Jonathan refuses them, tells them there’s nothing to worry about, then grabs his tobacco seeds, cigarettes, and tools, and makes his way back to the women.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a spaceship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. Theywere the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then herealized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frownof concentration marred her regular features. He turned around. On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving towardthem. She said: Get down! Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on herstomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes staredafter her stupidly. Get down! she reiterated in a furious voice. He let himself to his hands and knees. Ouch! he said. He felt likehe was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttledafter the girl. What's wrong? The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. Centaurs! she said. Ididn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead whichleads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reachthe hills we'll be safe. Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun? Well, personally, she replied, I never saw a Centaur until I waswrecked on this asteroid. She reached the ravine, crawled headforemost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for thehills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her. Why won't the Centaurs follow us into the hills? he panted. Too rough. They're like horses, she said. Nothing but a goat couldget around in the hills. The gulley, he saw, was deepening into a respectable canyon, then agorge. In half a mile, the walls towered above them. A narrow ribbonof sky was visible overhead. Yellow fern-like plants sprouted from thecrevices and floor of the canyon. They flushed a small furry creature from behind a bush. As it spedaway, it resembled a cottontail of Earth. The girl whipped back herarm, flung the spear. It transfixed the rodent. She picked it up, tiedit to her waist. Jonathan gaped. Such strength and accuracy astoundedhim. He thought, amazons and centaurs. He thought, but this is the year3372; not the time of ancient Greece. The canyon bore to the left. It grew rougher, the walls moreprecipitate. Jonathan limped to a halt. High boots and breeches, theuniform of Universal's space pilots, hadn't been designed for walking.Hold on, he said. He felt in his pockets, withdrew an empty cigarettepackage, crumpled it and hurled it to the ground. You got a cigarette? he asked without much hope. The girl shook her head. We ran out of tobacco the first few months wewere here. Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship. Where are you going? cried Ann in alarm. He said, I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at thefreighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke. No! She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of hergrip. They'd kill you, she said. I can sneak back, he insisted stubbornly. They might loot the ship.I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burleytobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it onGanymede. No! He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmlydetached her hand. The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.We are going to the camp, she said. Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out fromunder her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away. A voice shouted: What's going on there? <doc-sep>He paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running towardthem from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She wasbarefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped aroundher sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, herbrown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a tablecloth at one time in its history. A man! she breathed. By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's aman! Don't let him get away! cried Ann. Hilda! the brunette shrieked. A man! It's a man! A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed offwarily. Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: Don't let him get away! Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the wayhe had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of thecanyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around thebend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him. Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheerweight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him upbodily, started up the canyon chanting: He was a rocket riding daddyfrom Mars. He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago. Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in thespaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose hadbeen broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze ofhis left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept frommortification. He said, Put me down. I'll walk. You won't try to get away? said Ann. No, he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while beingheld aloft by four barbarous young women. Let him down, said Ann. We can catch him, anyway, if he makes abreak. Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged betweentwo husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the easewith which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no lightweight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across theplains. He wished he was a centaur. The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathanpicked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. Don't be afraid, advisedone of his captors. Just don't look down. I'm not afraid, said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrowledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out fromunder him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening momenthe thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied arope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the toplike a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it. The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlookingthe prairie. Look! cried Ann pointing over the edge. A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers upthey resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical tohis own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses. Centaurs! Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep>As the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courageto glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. Shelooked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seizeda whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. Shecaught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned hisgaze to his plate. Olga said: Hey, Sultan. He shuddered, but looked up questioningly. She said, How's the fish? Good, he mumbled between a mouthful. Where did you get it? Caught it, said Olga. The stream's full of 'em. I'll take youfishing tomorrow. She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on abone. Heaven forbid, he said. How about coming with me to gather fruit? cried the green-eyedblonde; you great big handsome man. Or me? cried another. And the table was in an uproar. The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the tableuntil the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she wascalled Billy. Quiet! She shrieked in her loud strident voice. Let him be. He can'tgo anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needsrest. She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. Howabout some roast? she said. No. He pushed back his plate with a sigh. If I only had a smoke. Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. Isn't that just like a man? I wouldn't know, said the green-eyed blonde. I've forgotten whatthey're like. Billy said, How badly wrecked is your ship? It's strewn all over the landscape, he replied sleepily. Is there any chance of patching it up? He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, hewanted to sleep. What? he said. Is there any possibility of repairing your ship? repeated Billy. Not outside the space docks. They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relaxthe barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. Themovement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpoweringlassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes. You look exhausted, said Ann. Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. Just tired, hemumbled. Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars. Indeedit was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. Hiseyelids drooped lower and lower. First it's tobacco, said Olga; now he wants to sleep. Twenty-sevengirls and he wants to sleep. He is asleep, said the green-eyed blonde. <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms. Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed. Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off. At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope. Cut off whose feet? he cried in alarm. Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots. Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep. Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years. The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped. He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued. As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him. How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him. Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved. Ooof! he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen. Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve. Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice. They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools. Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve. She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you. Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles. I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt. He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned. Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're all glad to hear that! <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco? They glanced at each other in perplexity. I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back. What? cried the three explorers in one breath. I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes. But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then! Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes. Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of women . Jonathan laughed outright. You are sure you won't return, young man? He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them. Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come. Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The Happy Castaway by Robert E. McDowell takes place during the year 3372 on an asteroid between Mars and Jupiter. The asteroid is mostly prairie and sprawling plains, but there are also foothills and steep mountains. In the mountains, there is also a mountain emitting white smoke. The centaurs, the Natives on the asteroid, live in the prairie and plains, as they are unable to successfully travel through the hills and mountains. The stranded women live beyond the mountains, where the centaurs can’t reach them, and have transformed the wreckage of their ship into a livable base. There is a grand table and weighted chairs to serve food at, a kitchen supposedly where they can cook the food they’ve hunted and foraged, as well as areas to sleep. There are rivers that run through the asteroid teeming with fish. Ann caught a rabbit-like creature, so there are other creatures to be hunted.

Who is Ann Clotilde, and what happens to her throughout the story? [SEP] <s> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a spaceship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. Theywere the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then herealized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frownof concentration marred her regular features. He turned around. On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving towardthem. She said: Get down! Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on herstomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes staredafter her stupidly. Get down! she reiterated in a furious voice. He let himself to his hands and knees. Ouch! he said. He felt likehe was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttledafter the girl. What's wrong? The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. Centaurs! she said. Ididn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead whichleads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reachthe hills we'll be safe. Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun? Well, personally, she replied, I never saw a Centaur until I waswrecked on this asteroid. She reached the ravine, crawled headforemost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for thehills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her. Why won't the Centaurs follow us into the hills? he panted. Too rough. They're like horses, she said. Nothing but a goat couldget around in the hills. The gulley, he saw, was deepening into a respectable canyon, then agorge. In half a mile, the walls towered above them. A narrow ribbonof sky was visible overhead. Yellow fern-like plants sprouted from thecrevices and floor of the canyon. They flushed a small furry creature from behind a bush. As it spedaway, it resembled a cottontail of Earth. The girl whipped back herarm, flung the spear. It transfixed the rodent. She picked it up, tiedit to her waist. Jonathan gaped. Such strength and accuracy astoundedhim. He thought, amazons and centaurs. He thought, but this is the year3372; not the time of ancient Greece. The canyon bore to the left. It grew rougher, the walls moreprecipitate. Jonathan limped to a halt. High boots and breeches, theuniform of Universal's space pilots, hadn't been designed for walking.Hold on, he said. He felt in his pockets, withdrew an empty cigarettepackage, crumpled it and hurled it to the ground. You got a cigarette? he asked without much hope. The girl shook her head. We ran out of tobacco the first few months wewere here. Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship. Where are you going? cried Ann in alarm. He said, I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at thefreighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke. No! She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of hergrip. They'd kill you, she said. I can sneak back, he insisted stubbornly. They might loot the ship.I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burleytobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it onGanymede. No! He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmlydetached her hand. The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.We are going to the camp, she said. Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out fromunder her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away. A voice shouted: What's going on there? <doc-sep>He paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running towardthem from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She wasbarefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped aroundher sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, herbrown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a tablecloth at one time in its history. A man! she breathed. By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's aman! Don't let him get away! cried Ann. Hilda! the brunette shrieked. A man! It's a man! A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed offwarily. Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: Don't let him get away! Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the wayhe had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of thecanyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around thebend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him. Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheerweight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him upbodily, started up the canyon chanting: He was a rocket riding daddyfrom Mars. He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago. Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in thespaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose hadbeen broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze ofhis left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept frommortification. He said, Put me down. I'll walk. You won't try to get away? said Ann. No, he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while beingheld aloft by four barbarous young women. Let him down, said Ann. We can catch him, anyway, if he makes abreak. Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged betweentwo husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the easewith which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no lightweight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across theplains. He wished he was a centaur. The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathanpicked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. Don't be afraid, advisedone of his captors. Just don't look down. I'm not afraid, said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrowledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out fromunder him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening momenthe thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied arope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the toplike a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it. The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlookingthe prairie. Look! cried Ann pointing over the edge. A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers upthey resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical tohis own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses. Centaurs! Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep>As the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courageto glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. Shelooked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seizeda whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. Shecaught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned hisgaze to his plate. Olga said: Hey, Sultan. He shuddered, but looked up questioningly. She said, How's the fish? Good, he mumbled between a mouthful. Where did you get it? Caught it, said Olga. The stream's full of 'em. I'll take youfishing tomorrow. She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on abone. Heaven forbid, he said. How about coming with me to gather fruit? cried the green-eyedblonde; you great big handsome man. Or me? cried another. And the table was in an uproar. The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the tableuntil the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she wascalled Billy. Quiet! She shrieked in her loud strident voice. Let him be. He can'tgo anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needsrest. She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. Howabout some roast? she said. No. He pushed back his plate with a sigh. If I only had a smoke. Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. Isn't that just like a man? I wouldn't know, said the green-eyed blonde. I've forgotten whatthey're like. Billy said, How badly wrecked is your ship? It's strewn all over the landscape, he replied sleepily. Is there any chance of patching it up? He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, hewanted to sleep. What? he said. Is there any possibility of repairing your ship? repeated Billy. Not outside the space docks. They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relaxthe barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. Themovement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpoweringlassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes. You look exhausted, said Ann. Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. Just tired, hemumbled. Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars. Indeedit was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. Hiseyelids drooped lower and lower. First it's tobacco, said Olga; now he wants to sleep. Twenty-sevengirls and he wants to sleep. He is asleep, said the green-eyed blonde. <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms. Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed. Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off. At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope. Cut off whose feet? he cried in alarm. Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots. Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep. Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years. The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped. He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued. As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him. How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him. Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved. Ooof! he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen. Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve. Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice. They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools. Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve. She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you. Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles. I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt. He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned. Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're all glad to hear that! <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco? They glanced at each other in perplexity. I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back. What? cried the three explorers in one breath. I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes. But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then! Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes. Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of women . Jonathan laughed outright. You are sure you won't return, young man? He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them. Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come. Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Ann Clotilde, and what happens to her throughout the story?

Ann Clotilde is one of the 27 women who crashed into the asteroid on their way to Jupiter and survived. She has blonde hair and a cute, button nose. She wears sandals and a frayed blue frock. She finds Jonathan Fawkes after he crashes during one of her hunting expeditions. She walked to him to see if he was dead or not but soon rescues him from the oncoming horde of centaurs. She quickly spears a rabbit-like creature and attaches it to her belt. She takes him down when he attempts to escape, proving her Amazonian strength. The other girls come when they see her and fawn over Jonathan as well. Together, they half-carry, half-drag him back to their ship, where they feed him. The next day, Ann meets him beneath a tree and essentially throws herself at him. He receives her gladly, but they soon stop when they are caught by the others. Jonathan runs off, leaving Ann behind.

What happened to the 27 women stuck on the asteroid? [SEP] <s> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a spaceship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. Theywere the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then herealized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frownof concentration marred her regular features. He turned around. On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving towardthem. She said: Get down! Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on herstomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes staredafter her stupidly. Get down! she reiterated in a furious voice. He let himself to his hands and knees. Ouch! he said. He felt likehe was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttledafter the girl. What's wrong? The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. Centaurs! she said. Ididn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead whichleads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reachthe hills we'll be safe. Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun? Well, personally, she replied, I never saw a Centaur until I waswrecked on this asteroid. She reached the ravine, crawled headforemost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for thehills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her. Why won't the Centaurs follow us into the hills? he panted. Too rough. They're like horses, she said. Nothing but a goat couldget around in the hills. The gulley, he saw, was deepening into a respectable canyon, then agorge. In half a mile, the walls towered above them. A narrow ribbonof sky was visible overhead. Yellow fern-like plants sprouted from thecrevices and floor of the canyon. They flushed a small furry creature from behind a bush. As it spedaway, it resembled a cottontail of Earth. The girl whipped back herarm, flung the spear. It transfixed the rodent. She picked it up, tiedit to her waist. Jonathan gaped. Such strength and accuracy astoundedhim. He thought, amazons and centaurs. He thought, but this is the year3372; not the time of ancient Greece. The canyon bore to the left. It grew rougher, the walls moreprecipitate. Jonathan limped to a halt. High boots and breeches, theuniform of Universal's space pilots, hadn't been designed for walking.Hold on, he said. He felt in his pockets, withdrew an empty cigarettepackage, crumpled it and hurled it to the ground. You got a cigarette? he asked without much hope. The girl shook her head. We ran out of tobacco the first few months wewere here. Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship. Where are you going? cried Ann in alarm. He said, I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at thefreighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke. No! She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of hergrip. They'd kill you, she said. I can sneak back, he insisted stubbornly. They might loot the ship.I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burleytobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it onGanymede. No! He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmlydetached her hand. The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.We are going to the camp, she said. Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out fromunder her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away. A voice shouted: What's going on there? <doc-sep>He paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running towardthem from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She wasbarefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped aroundher sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, herbrown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a tablecloth at one time in its history. A man! she breathed. By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's aman! Don't let him get away! cried Ann. Hilda! the brunette shrieked. A man! It's a man! A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed offwarily. Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: Don't let him get away! Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the wayhe had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of thecanyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around thebend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him. Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheerweight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him upbodily, started up the canyon chanting: He was a rocket riding daddyfrom Mars. He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago. Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in thespaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose hadbeen broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze ofhis left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept frommortification. He said, Put me down. I'll walk. You won't try to get away? said Ann. No, he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while beingheld aloft by four barbarous young women. Let him down, said Ann. We can catch him, anyway, if he makes abreak. Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged betweentwo husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the easewith which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no lightweight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across theplains. He wished he was a centaur. The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathanpicked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. Don't be afraid, advisedone of his captors. Just don't look down. I'm not afraid, said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrowledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out fromunder him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening momenthe thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied arope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the toplike a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it. The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlookingthe prairie. Look! cried Ann pointing over the edge. A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers upthey resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical tohis own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses. Centaurs! Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep>As the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courageto glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. Shelooked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seizeda whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. Shecaught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned hisgaze to his plate. Olga said: Hey, Sultan. He shuddered, but looked up questioningly. She said, How's the fish? Good, he mumbled between a mouthful. Where did you get it? Caught it, said Olga. The stream's full of 'em. I'll take youfishing tomorrow. She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on abone. Heaven forbid, he said. How about coming with me to gather fruit? cried the green-eyedblonde; you great big handsome man. Or me? cried another. And the table was in an uproar. The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the tableuntil the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she wascalled Billy. Quiet! She shrieked in her loud strident voice. Let him be. He can'tgo anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needsrest. She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. Howabout some roast? she said. No. He pushed back his plate with a sigh. If I only had a smoke. Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. Isn't that just like a man? I wouldn't know, said the green-eyed blonde. I've forgotten whatthey're like. Billy said, How badly wrecked is your ship? It's strewn all over the landscape, he replied sleepily. Is there any chance of patching it up? He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, hewanted to sleep. What? he said. Is there any possibility of repairing your ship? repeated Billy. Not outside the space docks. They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relaxthe barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. Themovement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpoweringlassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes. You look exhausted, said Ann. Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. Just tired, hemumbled. Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars. Indeedit was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. Hiseyelids drooped lower and lower. First it's tobacco, said Olga; now he wants to sleep. Twenty-sevengirls and he wants to sleep. He is asleep, said the green-eyed blonde. <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms. Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed. Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off. At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope. Cut off whose feet? he cried in alarm. Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots. Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep. Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years. The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped. He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued. As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him. How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him. Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved. Ooof! he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen. Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve. Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice. They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools. Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve. She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you. Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles. I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt. He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned. Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're all glad to hear that! <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco? They glanced at each other in perplexity. I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back. What? cried the three explorers in one breath. I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes. But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then! Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes. Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of women . Jonathan laughed outright. You are sure you won't return, young man? He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them. Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come. Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happened to the 27 women stuck on the asteroid?

The Jupiter Food-growers Association enlisted many women to travel out to the colonies to serve as wives and promote happiness as well as breed a new generation. However, on their way to Jupiter, their spaceship crashed into an asteroid, and only 27 of the women survived. In the three years since the crash, these women have learned to hunt, forage, and defend themselves against the native species there, Centaurs. They developed a society based on sharing and generosity, shown through their individual chores that all serve the greater good. However, the two things they wished for were a rescue mission or a man. When Jonathan Fawkes arrived, their second wish came true. After they all met him, they each complimented him incessantly and offered him more food, drinks, and other sweet amenities. Being the first man they’d seen in over three years, he was quite the rarity.

What transformation does Jonathan Fawkes undergo throughout the story? [SEP] <s> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep>Jonathan Fawkes fidgeted uncomfortably. He would rather pilot a spaceship through a meteor field than face twenty-seven young women. Theywere the only thing in the Spaceways of which he was in awe. Then herealized that the girl's dark blue eyes had strayed beyond him. A frownof concentration marred her regular features. He turned around. On the rim of the prairie he saw a dozen black specks moving towardthem. She said: Get down! Her voice was agitated. She flung herself on herstomach and began to crawl away from the wreck. Jonathan Fawkes staredafter her stupidly. Get down! she reiterated in a furious voice. He let himself to his hands and knees. Ouch! he said. He felt likehe was being jabbed with pins. He must be one big bruise. He scuttledafter the girl. What's wrong? The girl looked back at him over her shoulder. Centaurs! she said. Ididn't know they had returned. There is a small ravine just ahead whichleads into the hills. I don't think they've seen us. If we can reachthe hills we'll be safe. Centaurs! Isn't there anything new under the sun? Well, personally, she replied, I never saw a Centaur until I waswrecked on this asteroid. She reached the ravine, crawled headforemost over the edge. Jonathan tumbled after her. He hit the bottom,winced, scrambled to his feet. The girl started at a trot for thehills. Jonathan, groaning at each step, hobbled beside her. Why won't the Centaurs follow us into the hills? he panted. Too rough. They're like horses, she said. Nothing but a goat couldget around in the hills. The gulley, he saw, was deepening into a respectable canyon, then agorge. In half a mile, the walls towered above them. A narrow ribbonof sky was visible overhead. Yellow fern-like plants sprouted from thecrevices and floor of the canyon. They flushed a small furry creature from behind a bush. As it spedaway, it resembled a cottontail of Earth. The girl whipped back herarm, flung the spear. It transfixed the rodent. She picked it up, tiedit to her waist. Jonathan gaped. Such strength and accuracy astoundedhim. He thought, amazons and centaurs. He thought, but this is the year3372; not the time of ancient Greece. The canyon bore to the left. It grew rougher, the walls moreprecipitate. Jonathan limped to a halt. High boots and breeches, theuniform of Universal's space pilots, hadn't been designed for walking.Hold on, he said. He felt in his pockets, withdrew an empty cigarettepackage, crumpled it and hurled it to the ground. You got a cigarette? he asked without much hope. The girl shook her head. We ran out of tobacco the first few months wewere here. Jonathan turned around, started back for the space ship. Where are you going? cried Ann in alarm. He said, I've got a couple of cartons of cigarettes back at thefreighter. Centaurs or no centaurs, I'm going to get a smoke. No! She clutched his arm. He was surprised at the strength of hergrip. They'd kill you, she said. I can sneak back, he insisted stubbornly. They might loot the ship.I don't want to lose those cigarettes. I was hauling some good burleytobacco seed too. The colonists were going to experiment with it onGanymede. No! He lifted his eyebrows. He thought, she is an amazon! He firmlydetached her hand. The girl flicked up her spear, nicked his neck with the point of it.We are going to the camp, she said. Jonathan threw himself down backwards, kicked the girl's feet out fromunder her. Like a cat he scrambled up and wrenched the spear away. A voice shouted: What's going on there? <doc-sep>He paused shamefacedly. A second girl, he saw, was running towardthem from up the canyon. Her bare legs flashed like ivory. She wasbarefooted, and she had black hair. A green cloth was wrapped aroundher sarong fashion. She bounced to a stop in front of Jonathan, herbrown eyes wide in surprise. He thought her sarong had been a tablecloth at one time in its history. A man! she breathed. By Jupiter and all its little moons, it's aman! Don't let him get away! cried Ann. Hilda! the brunette shrieked. A man! It's a man! A third girl skidded around the bend in the canyon. Jonathan backed offwarily. Ann Clotilde cried in anguish: Don't let him get away! Jonathan chose the centaurs. He wheeled around, dashed back the wayhe had come. Someone tackled him. He rolled on the rocky floor of thecanyon. He struggled to his feet. He saw six more girls race around thebend in the canyon. With shouts of joy they flung themselves on him. Jonathan was game, but the nine husky amazons pinned him down by sheerweight. They bound him hand and foot. Then four of them picked him upbodily, started up the canyon chanting: He was a rocket riding daddyfrom Mars. He recognized it as a popular song of three years ago. Jonathan had never been so humiliated in his life. He was known in thespaceways from Mercury to Jupiter as a man to leave alone. His nose hadbeen broken three times. A thin white scar crawled down the bronze ofhis left cheek, relic of a barroom brawl on Venus. He was big, rangy,tough. And these girls had trounced him. Girls! He almost wept frommortification. He said, Put me down. I'll walk. You won't try to get away? said Ann. No, he replied with as much dignity as he could summon while beingheld aloft by four barbarous young women. Let him down, said Ann. We can catch him, anyway, if he makes abreak. Jonathan Fawkes' humiliation was complete. He meekly trudged betweentwo husky females, who ogled him shamelessly. He was amazed at the easewith which they had carried him. He was six feet three and no lightweight. He thought enviously of the centaurs, free to gallop across theplains. He wished he was a centaur. The trail left the canyon, struggled up the precipitate walls. Jonathanpicked his way gingerly, hugged the rock. Don't be afraid, advisedone of his captors. Just don't look down. I'm not afraid, said Jonathan hotly. To prove it he trod the narrowledge with scorn. His foot struck a pebble. Both feet went out fromunder him. He slithered halfway over the edge. For one sickening momenthe thought he was gone, then Ann grabbed him by the scruff of his neck,hauled him back to safety. He lay gasping on his stomach. They tied arope around his waist then, and led him the rest of the way to the toplike a baby on a leash. He was too crestfallen to resent it. The trail came out on a high ridge. They paused on a bluff overlookingthe prairie. Look! cried Ann pointing over the edge. A half dozen beasts were trotting beneath on the plain. At first,Jonathan mistook them for horses. Then he saw that from the withers upthey resembled men. Waists, shoulders, arms and heads were identical tohis own, but their bodies were the bodies of horses. Centaurs! Jonathan Fawkes said, not believing his eyes. <doc-sep>The girls set up a shout and threw stones down at the centaurs, whoreared, pawed the air, and galloped to a safe distance, from which theyhurled back insults in a strange tongue. Their voices sounded faintlylike the neighing of horses. Amazons and centaurs, he thought again. He couldn't get the problemof the girls' phenomenal strength out of his mind. Then it occurredto him that the asteroid, most likely, was smaller even than Earth'smoon. He must weigh about a thirtieth of what he usually did, due tothe lessened gravity. It also occurred to him that they would be thirtytimes as strong. He was staggered. He wished he had a smoke. At length, the amazons and the centaurs tired of bandying insultsback and forth. The centaurs galloped off into the prairie, the girlsresumed their march. Jonathan scrambled up hills, skidded down slopes.The brunette was beside him helping him over the rough spots. I'm Olga, she confided. Has anybody ever told you what a handsomefellow you are? She pinched his cheek. Jonathan blushed. They climbed a ridge, paused at the crest. Below them, he saw a deepvalley. A stream tumbled through the center of it. There were treesalong its banks, the first he had seen on the asteroid. At the head ofthe valley, he made out the massive pile of a space liner. They started down a winding path. The space liner disappeared behinda promontory of the mountain. Jonathan steeled himself for the comingordeal. He would have sat down and refused to budge except that he knewthe girls would hoist him on their shoulders and bear him into the camplike a bag of meal. The trail debouched into the valley. Just ahead the space linerreappeared. He imagined that it had crashed into the mountain, skiddedand rolled down its side until it lodged beside the stream. It remindedhim of a wounded dinosaur. Three girls were bathing in the stream. Helooked away hastily. Someone hailed them from the space ship. We've caught a man, shrieked one of his captors. A flock of girls streamed out of the wrecked space ship. A man! screamed a husky blonde. She was wearing a grass skirt. Shehad green eyes. We're rescued! No. No, Ann Clotilde hastened to explain. He was wrecked like us. Oh, came a disappointed chorus. He's a man, said the green-eyed blonde. That's the next best thing. Oh, Olga, said a strapping brunette. Who'd ever thought a man couldlook so good? I did, said Olga. She chucked Jonathan under the chin. He shiveredlike an unbroken colt when the bit first goes in its mouth. He feltlike a mouse hemmed in by a ring of cats. A big rawboned brute of a girl strolled into the circle. She said,Dinner's ready. Her voice was loud, strident. It reminded him ofthe voices of girls in the honky tonks on Venus. She looked at himappraisingly as if he were a horse she was about to bid on. Bring himinto the ship, she said. The man must be starved. He was propelled jubilantly into the palatial dining salon of thewrecked liner. A long polished meturilium table occupied the center ofthe floor. Automatic weight distributing chairs stood around it. Hisfeet sank into a green fiberon carpet. He had stepped back into theThirty-fourth Century from the fabulous barbarian past. With a sigh of relief, he started to sit down. A lithe red-head sprangforward and held his chair. They all waited politely for him to beseated before they took their places. He felt silly. He felt likea captive princess. All the confidence engendered by the familiarsettings of the space ship went out of him like wind. He, JonathanFawkes, was a castaway on an asteroid inhabited by twenty-seven wildwomen. <doc-sep>As the meal boisterously progressed, he regained sufficient courageto glance timidly around. Directly across the table sat a striking,grey-eyed girl whose brown hair was coiled severely about her head. Shelooked to him like a stenographer. He watched horrified as she seizeda whole roast fowl, tore it apart with her fingers, gnawed a leg. Shecaught him staring at her and rolled her eyes at him. He returned hisgaze to his plate. Olga said: Hey, Sultan. He shuddered, but looked up questioningly. She said, How's the fish? Good, he mumbled between a mouthful. Where did you get it? Caught it, said Olga. The stream's full of 'em. I'll take youfishing tomorrow. She winked at him so brazenly that he choked on abone. Heaven forbid, he said. How about coming with me to gather fruit? cried the green-eyedblonde; you great big handsome man. Or me? cried another. And the table was in an uproar. The rawboned woman who had summoned them to dinner, pounded the tableuntil the cups and plates danced. Jonathan had gathered that she wascalled Billy. Quiet! She shrieked in her loud strident voice. Let him be. He can'tgo anywhere for a few days. He's just been through a wreck. He needsrest. She turned to Jonathan who had shrunk down in his chair. Howabout some roast? she said. No. He pushed back his plate with a sigh. If I only had a smoke. Olga gave her unruly black hair a flirt. Isn't that just like a man? I wouldn't know, said the green-eyed blonde. I've forgotten whatthey're like. Billy said, How badly wrecked is your ship? It's strewn all over the landscape, he replied sleepily. Is there any chance of patching it up? He considered the question. More than anything else, he decided, hewanted to sleep. What? he said. Is there any possibility of repairing your ship? repeated Billy. Not outside the space docks. They expelled their breath, but not for an instant did they relaxthe barrage of their eyes. He shifted position in embarrassment. Themovement pulled his muscles like a rack. Furthermore, an overpoweringlassitude was threatening to pop him off to sleep before their eyes. You look exhausted, said Ann. Jonathan dragged himself back from the edge of sleep. Just tired, hemumbled. Haven't had a good night's rest since I left Mars. Indeedit was only by the most painful effort that he kept awake at all. Hiseyelids drooped lower and lower. First it's tobacco, said Olga; now he wants to sleep. Twenty-sevengirls and he wants to sleep. He is asleep, said the green-eyed blonde. <doc-sep>Jonathan was slumped forward across the table, his head buried in hisarms. Catch a hold, said Billy, pushing back from the table. A dozen girlsvolunteered with a rush. Hoist! said Billy. They lifted him like asleepy child, bore him tenderly up an incline and into a stateroom,where they deposited him on the bed. Ann said to Olga; Help me with these boots. But they resisted everytug. It's no use, groaned Ann, straightening up and wiping her brightyellow hair back from her eyes. His feet have swollen. We'll have tocut them off. At these words, Jonathan raised upright as if someone had pulled a rope. Cut off whose feet? he cried in alarm. Not your feet, silly, said Ann. Your boots. Lay a hand on those boots, he scowled; and I'll make me another pairout of your hides. They set me back a week's salary. Having deliveredhimself of this ultimatum, he went back to sleep. Olga clapped her hand to her forehead. And this, she cried is whatwe've been praying for during the last three years. The next day found Jonathan Fawkes hobbling around by the aid of acane. At the portal of the space ship, he stuck out his head, glancedall around warily. None of the girls were in sight. They had, hepresumed, gone about their chores: hunting, fishing, gathering fruitsand berries. He emerged all the way and set out for the creek. Hewalked with an exaggerated limp just in case any of them should behanging around. As long as he was an invalid he was safe, he hoped. He sighed. Not every man could be waited on so solicitously bytwenty-seven handsome strapping amazons. He wished he could carry itoff in cavalier fashion. He hobbled to the creek, sat down beneath theshade of a tree. He just wasn't the type, he supposed. And it might beyears before they were rescued. As a last resort, he supposed, he could hide out in the hills or jointhe centaurs. He rather fancied himself galloping across the plainson the back of a centaur. He looked up with a start. Ann Clotilde wasambling toward him. How's the invalid? she said, seating herself beside him. Hot, isn't it? he said. He started to rise. Ann Clotilde placed theflat of her hand on his chest and shoved. Ooof! he grunted. He satdown rather more forcibly than he had risen. Don't get up because of me, she informed him. It's my turn to cook,but I saw you out here beneath the trees. Dinner can wait. Jonathan doyou know that you are irresistible? She seized his shoulders, staredinto his eyes. He couldn't have felt any more uncomfortable had ahungry boa constrictor draped itself in his arms. He mopped his browwith his sleeve. Suppose the rest should come, he said in an embarrassed voice. They're busy. They won't be here until I call them to lunch. Youreyes, she said, are like deep mysterious pools. Sure enough? said Jonathan with involuntary interest. He began torecover his nerve. She said, You're the best looking thing. She rumpled his hair. Ican't keep my eyes off you. Jonathan put his arm around her gingerly. Ouch! He winced. He hadforgotten his sore muscles. I forgot, said Ann Clotilde in a contrite voice. She tried to rise.You're hurt. He pulled her back down. Not so you could notice it, he grinned. Well! came the strident voice of Billy from behind them. We're all glad to hear that! <doc-sep>Jonathan leaped to his feet, dumping Ann to the ground. He jerkedaround. All twenty-six of the girls were lined up on the path. Theirfeatures were grim. He said: I don't feel so well after all. It don't wash, said Billy. It's time for a showdown. Jonathan's hair stood on end. He felt rather than saw Ann Clotilde takeher stand beside him. He noticed that she was holding her spear at amenacing angle. She said in an angry voice: He's mine. I found him.Leave him alone. Where do you get that stuff? cried Olga. Share and share alike, sayI. We could draw straws for him, suggested the green-eyed blonde. Look here, Jonathan broke in. I've got some say in the matter. You have not, snapped Billy. You'll do just as we say. She took astep toward him. Jonathan edged away in consternation. He's going to run! Olga shouted. Jonathan never stopped until he was back in the canyon leading to theplain. His nerves were jumping like fleas. He craved the soothingrelaxation of a smoke. There was, he remembered, a carton of cigarettesat the wreck. He resumed his flight, but at a more sober pace. At the spot where he and Ann had first crawled away from the centaurs,he scrambled out of the gulley, glanced in the direction of his spaceship. He blinked his eyes, stared. Then he waved his arms, shouted andtore across the prairie. A trim space cruiser was resting beside thewreck of his own. Across its gleaming monaloid hull ran an inscriptionin silver letters: INTERSTELLAR COSMOGRAPHY SOCIETY. Two men crawled out of Jonathan's wrecked freighter, glanced insurprise at Jonathan. A third man ran from the cruiser, a Dixon RayRifle in his hand. I'm Jonathan Fawkes, said the castaway as he panted up, pilot forUniversal. I was wrecked. A tall elderly man held out his hand. He had a small black waxedmustache and Van Dyke. He was smoking a venusian cigarette in ayellow composition holder. He said, I'm Doctor Boynton. He had arich cultivated voice, and a nose like a hawk. We are members of theInterstellar Cosmography Society. We've been commissioned to make acursory examination of this asteroid. You had a nasty crack up, Mr.Fawkes. But you are in luck, sir. We were on the point of returningwhen we sighted the wreck. I say, said the man who had run out of the cruiser. He was a prim,energetic young man. Jonathan noted that he carried the ray gungingerly, respectfully. We're a week overdue now, he said. If youhave any personal belongings that you'd like to take with you, you'dbest be getting them aboard. <doc-sep>Jonathan's face broke into a grin. He said, Do any of you know how togrow tobacco? They glanced at each other in perplexity. I like it here, continued Jonathan. I'm not going back. What? cried the three explorers in one breath. I'm going to stay, he repeated. I only came back here after thecigarettes. But it will be three years before the asteroid's orbit brings it backin the space lanes, said Doctor Boynton. You don't possibly expect tobe picked up before then! Jonathan shook his head, began to load himself with tools, tobaccoseed, and cigarettes. Odd. Doctor Boynton shook his head, turned to the others. Though ifI remember correctly, there was quite an epidemic of hermits duringthe medieval period. It was an esthetic movement. They fled to thewilderness to escape the temptation of women . Jonathan laughed outright. You are sure you won't return, young man? He shook his head. They argued, they cajoled, but Jonathan was adamant.He said, You might report my accident to Universal. Tell them to stopone of their Jupiter-bound freighters here when the asteroid swingsback in the space ways. I'll have a load for them. Inside the ship, Doctor Boynton moved over to a round transparent porthole. What a strange fellow, he murmured. He was just in time to seethe castaway, loaded like a pack mule, disappear in the direction fromwhich he had come. Robinson Crusoe was going back to his man (?) Friday—all twenty-sevenof them. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What transformation does Jonathan Fawkes undergo throughout the story?

At first, Jonathan Fawkes claims that he is most uncomfortable around women. Despite being a galavanting spaceman known around the universe for his strength and bravery, he is in awe and possibly fearful only of women. When he first arrives on the asteroid and encounters Ann, he is immensely uncomfortable with her gaze on him, and that continues as he discovers that she can overpower him in his weakened state quite easily. As the rest of the stranded women arrive, they all ogle at him and tell him how incredibly handsome he is. This only makes him even more uncomfortable. However, by the end of the story, he wraps his arms around Ann and would have embraced her had they not been caught by the others. The rest of the women vie for his attention, and he runs off back to his spaceship. At first, the reader might think it’s because he needs to get away from the girls or that he can’t handle the pressure. However, his encounter with the potential rescuers proves that he is now far more comfortable around the women. He ran back to his spaceship to grab his cigarettes and tobacco seeds. He always planned to return to the women and does not tell the rescuers about them. Although at first, he was terrified of the girls, by the end he too is infatuated and loves the situation at hand.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the lowceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed awhite glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly'sorder. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up awell-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer. It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone offwithout a hitch. Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearingfrom closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It wasobvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of largecanvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locksundamaged. Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someonewho hadn't entered in the usual way. Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. TheSnithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. Withsuch a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in thevault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how theyoperated. He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one ofthe brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, heslid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-aircafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gatheredat a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in amagazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardlyseemed worth all the effort.... He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glowof the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from thenight-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give hima momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He gropedhis way to the bunk. So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them offthere'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whateverhis discovery might mean to him. But he was ready. Let them come. <doc-sep>Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenlyfrom a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowdedshelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air. The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of anout-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figureswere visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework. A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cagemoved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cagesettled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostlyswitches.... The glow died. Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouthwas dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that itwas here— Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he hadprepared for the occasion: Greeting, visitors from the Future.... Hopelessly corny. What about: Welcome to the Twentieth Century.... No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs toDan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it nowlooked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, witha cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieveslooked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender andbalding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticedDan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on thetable, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked atthe stacked shelves. Looks like the old boy's been doing all right, the shorter man said.Fathead's gonna be pleased. A very gratifying consignment, his companion said. However, we'dbest hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge? Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway. The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period. Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. Like always, he grumbled. No nood dames. I like nood dames. Look at this, Manny! The textures alone— Manny looked. Yeah, nice use of values, he conceded. But I stillprefer nood dames, Fiorello. And this! Fiorello lifted the next painting. Look at that gay playof rich browns! I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street, Manny said. They waspopular with the sparrows. Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations— Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on. Manny, turning to place a paintingin the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The paintingclattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. Uh.... Oh-oh, Manny said. A double-cross. I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen, Dan said. I— I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. Let's blow,Fiorello. Wait a minute, Dan said. Before you do anything hasty— Don't start nothing, Buster, Manny said cautiously. We're plentytough guys when aroused. I want to talk to you, Dan insisted. You see, these paintings— Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was thegent's room— Never mind, Manny, Fiorello cut in. It appears there's been a leak. Dan shook his head. No leak. I simply deduced— Look, Fiorello, Manny said. You chin if you want to; I'm doing afast fade. Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end. Wait a minute! Dan shouted. I'd like to make a deal with youfellows. Ah-hah! Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. I knew it! Slane, youcrook! <doc-sep>Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.It appeared Kelly hedged his bets. Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything! Dan called. He turned back toFiorello. Listen, I figured out— Pretty clever! Kelly's voice barked. Inside job. But it takes morethan the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly. Perhaps you were right, Manny, Fiorello said. Complications arearising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste. He edged towardthe cage. What about this ginzo? Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. He's on tous. Can't be helped. Look—I want to go with you! Dan shouted. I'll bet you do! Kelly's voice roared. One more minute and I'll havethe door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, didyou? You can't go, my dear fellow, Fiorello said. Room for two, no more. Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. Heaimed it at Manny. You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello inthe time machine. Are you nuts? Manny demanded. I'm flattered, dear boy, Fiorello said, but— Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute. You can't leave me here! Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd intothe cage beside Fiorello. We'll send for you, Dan said. Let's go, Fiorello. The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into thefar corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twistedaside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered backinto the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault. Manny! Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid hiscompanion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on hisheels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. Acop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dangrabbed a lever at random and pulled. Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectralKelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Danswallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like anelevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides. Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was trickybusiness. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezingin among brick and mortar particles.... But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just theway he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way.The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawledback into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theftof the past decade on him. It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out thecontrols.... <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall. Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future. He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere.... Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall. A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table— The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt. Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back.... Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn. He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup— Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants— The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled— With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it— He covered his ears, braced himself— With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded. With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something. II Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes. Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor. I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor. What happened to Manny and Fiorello? They—I—There was this cop. Kelly— Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer. Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth. How ... what...? The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way? I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely. Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings? Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky. Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling. I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices. <doc-sep>Gosh, no, Dan reassured the eye. I'm crazy about—uh— Vorplischers, the voice said. From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you callit. The Bronx cheer sounded again. How I long to glimpse once more mynative fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home. That reminds me, Dan said. I have to be running along now. Hesidled toward the door. Stick around, Dan, the voice rumbled. How about a drink? I canoffer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,Pepsi— No, thanks. If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange. The Vorplischerswiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted witha nipple and turned back to Dan. Now, I got a proposition which may beof some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a seriousblow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a mostopportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of thepicture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. Howdoes that grab you? You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine? Time machine? The brown eyes blinked alternately. I fear someconfusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term. That thing, Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. The machine I camehere in. You want me— Time machine, the voice repeated. Some sort of chronometer, perhaps? Huh? I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess theimplied concept snows me. The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. Clue me, Dan. What's atime machine? Well, it's what you use to travel through time. The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. Apparently I've lousedup my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no ideayou were capable of that sort of thing. The immense head leaned back,the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. And to think I've beenspinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art! But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one? That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your timemachines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted atthis development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet asEndsville. <doc-sep>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway— I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant. But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that. You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return— I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine? Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan? Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine— Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously. I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street. A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex? Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and— That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it. Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on. <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid. I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway. Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure. Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated. Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place. Very well, Dan. Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained. The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once. Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers. That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong— The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and— You! a hoarse voice bellowed. Grab him! someone yelled. Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall. III Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then— A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction. The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth. The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch. As the glow died, the siren faded into silence. Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls— There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through. Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth. Alors, monsieur , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow. Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas? No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay.... My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. That siren, Dan said. Was that you? Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked. The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. Inter-what? Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary. What do you want with me? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Dan Slane is in Clyde Snithian's office; he proposes that, in response to a recent slew of art thefts, he guard Snithian's art vault overnight in addition to the external security he has. Dan is suspicious about the thefts and has a theory that the crooks are entering from within the vaults, perhaps through time travel. Snithian refuses to hire Dan, but Kelly, head of security, hires him in secret. That night, Dan guards from within the vault, keeping himself occupied with sleep and food, when a strange, cage like contraption appears out of thin air. Two men emerge, named Manny and Fiorello, and Dan hesitantly confronts them. While Dan speaks to them, Kelly's voice suddenly booms from a hidden speaker in the room, under the impression that Dan had been in on the thefts. Dan wrestles Manny and Fiorello off and manages to take control of the carrier and escape. Not knowing how to control it, Dan finds himself passing through many rooms and settings, until the carrier finally settles in an office room of a skyscraper. There, Dan meets Blote, a strange, giant-like creature, who asks him what happened to Manny and Fiorello. Blote, the apparent head of the art schemes, requests that Dan join the team to replace them. Dan refuses, and asks about the carrier, referring to it as a time machine; Blote is perplexed, unaware of the concept of a time machine, and demands that Dan find one in exchange for a reward, and for avoiding trouble for trespassing. Dan, unsure of where to retrieve a time machine, bluffs and manages to take Blote back to Snithian's, where he abandons him. Suddenly, Dan hears a siren, and the carrier travels to a park. The carrier becomes frosted over as a man emerges to confront him. The man introduces himself as an agent of the Inter-Dimensional Monitor Service.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the lowceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed awhite glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly'sorder. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up awell-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer. It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone offwithout a hitch. Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearingfrom closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It wasobvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of largecanvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locksundamaged. Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someonewho hadn't entered in the usual way. Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. TheSnithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. Withsuch a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in thevault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how theyoperated. He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one ofthe brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, heslid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-aircafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gatheredat a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in amagazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardlyseemed worth all the effort.... He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glowof the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from thenight-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give hima momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He gropedhis way to the bunk. So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them offthere'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whateverhis discovery might mean to him. But he was ready. Let them come. <doc-sep>Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenlyfrom a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowdedshelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air. The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of anout-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figureswere visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework. A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cagemoved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cagesettled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostlyswitches.... The glow died. Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouthwas dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that itwas here— Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he hadprepared for the occasion: Greeting, visitors from the Future.... Hopelessly corny. What about: Welcome to the Twentieth Century.... No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs toDan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it nowlooked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, witha cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieveslooked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender andbalding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticedDan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on thetable, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked atthe stacked shelves. Looks like the old boy's been doing all right, the shorter man said.Fathead's gonna be pleased. A very gratifying consignment, his companion said. However, we'dbest hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge? Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway. The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period. Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. Like always, he grumbled. No nood dames. I like nood dames. Look at this, Manny! The textures alone— Manny looked. Yeah, nice use of values, he conceded. But I stillprefer nood dames, Fiorello. And this! Fiorello lifted the next painting. Look at that gay playof rich browns! I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street, Manny said. They waspopular with the sparrows. Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations— Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on. Manny, turning to place a paintingin the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The paintingclattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. Uh.... Oh-oh, Manny said. A double-cross. I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen, Dan said. I— I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. Let's blow,Fiorello. Wait a minute, Dan said. Before you do anything hasty— Don't start nothing, Buster, Manny said cautiously. We're plentytough guys when aroused. I want to talk to you, Dan insisted. You see, these paintings— Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was thegent's room— Never mind, Manny, Fiorello cut in. It appears there's been a leak. Dan shook his head. No leak. I simply deduced— Look, Fiorello, Manny said. You chin if you want to; I'm doing afast fade. Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end. Wait a minute! Dan shouted. I'd like to make a deal with youfellows. Ah-hah! Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. I knew it! Slane, youcrook! <doc-sep>Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.It appeared Kelly hedged his bets. Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything! Dan called. He turned back toFiorello. Listen, I figured out— Pretty clever! Kelly's voice barked. Inside job. But it takes morethan the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly. Perhaps you were right, Manny, Fiorello said. Complications arearising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste. He edged towardthe cage. What about this ginzo? Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. He's on tous. Can't be helped. Look—I want to go with you! Dan shouted. I'll bet you do! Kelly's voice roared. One more minute and I'll havethe door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, didyou? You can't go, my dear fellow, Fiorello said. Room for two, no more. Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. Heaimed it at Manny. You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello inthe time machine. Are you nuts? Manny demanded. I'm flattered, dear boy, Fiorello said, but— Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute. You can't leave me here! Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd intothe cage beside Fiorello. We'll send for you, Dan said. Let's go, Fiorello. The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into thefar corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twistedaside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered backinto the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault. Manny! Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid hiscompanion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on hisheels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. Acop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dangrabbed a lever at random and pulled. Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectralKelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Danswallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like anelevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides. Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was trickybusiness. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezingin among brick and mortar particles.... But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just theway he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way.The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawledback into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theftof the past decade on him. It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out thecontrols.... <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall. Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future. He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere.... Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall. A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table— The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt. Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back.... Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn. He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup— Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants— The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled— With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it— He covered his ears, braced himself— With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded. With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something. II Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes. Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor. I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor. What happened to Manny and Fiorello? They—I—There was this cop. Kelly— Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer. Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth. How ... what...? The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way? I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely. Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings? Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky. Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling. I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices. <doc-sep>Gosh, no, Dan reassured the eye. I'm crazy about—uh— Vorplischers, the voice said. From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you callit. The Bronx cheer sounded again. How I long to glimpse once more mynative fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home. That reminds me, Dan said. I have to be running along now. Hesidled toward the door. Stick around, Dan, the voice rumbled. How about a drink? I canoffer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,Pepsi— No, thanks. If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange. The Vorplischerswiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted witha nipple and turned back to Dan. Now, I got a proposition which may beof some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a seriousblow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a mostopportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of thepicture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. Howdoes that grab you? You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine? Time machine? The brown eyes blinked alternately. I fear someconfusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term. That thing, Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. The machine I camehere in. You want me— Time machine, the voice repeated. Some sort of chronometer, perhaps? Huh? I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess theimplied concept snows me. The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. Clue me, Dan. What's atime machine? Well, it's what you use to travel through time. The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. Apparently I've lousedup my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no ideayou were capable of that sort of thing. The immense head leaned back,the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. And to think I've beenspinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art! But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one? That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your timemachines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted atthis development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet asEndsville. <doc-sep>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway— I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant. But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that. You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return— I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine? Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan? Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine— Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously. I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street. A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex? Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and— That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it. Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on. <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid. I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway. Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure. Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated. Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place. Very well, Dan. Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained. The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once. Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers. That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong— The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and— You! a hoarse voice bellowed. Grab him! someone yelled. Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall. III Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then— A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction. The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth. The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch. As the glow died, the siren faded into silence. Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls— There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through. Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth. Alors, monsieur , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow. Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas? No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay.... My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. That siren, Dan said. Was that you? Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked. The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. Inter-what? Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary. What do you want with me? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The first part of the story takes place in Snithian's headquarters, where he speaks to Dan in his office. Later that night, Dan sleeps in the art vault, a small room with gray walls that support paintings wrapped in brown paper. The room contains a bunk, fridge, and bookshelf. Once Dan escapes through the carrier, he finds himself passing through different rooms, including a kitchen, hallway, and bedroom. The carrier then takes him to an office in a skyscraper, with posters, framed paintings, and a desk, where he finds Blote. After returning back to Snithian's, the carrier takes him to a large park.

What is the relationship between Dan and Blote? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the lowceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed awhite glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly'sorder. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up awell-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer. It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone offwithout a hitch. Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearingfrom closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It wasobvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of largecanvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locksundamaged. Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someonewho hadn't entered in the usual way. Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. TheSnithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. Withsuch a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in thevault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how theyoperated. He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one ofthe brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, heslid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-aircafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gatheredat a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in amagazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardlyseemed worth all the effort.... He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glowof the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from thenight-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give hima momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He gropedhis way to the bunk. So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them offthere'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whateverhis discovery might mean to him. But he was ready. Let them come. <doc-sep>Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenlyfrom a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowdedshelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air. The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of anout-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figureswere visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework. A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cagemoved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cagesettled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostlyswitches.... The glow died. Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouthwas dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that itwas here— Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he hadprepared for the occasion: Greeting, visitors from the Future.... Hopelessly corny. What about: Welcome to the Twentieth Century.... No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs toDan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it nowlooked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, witha cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieveslooked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender andbalding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticedDan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on thetable, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked atthe stacked shelves. Looks like the old boy's been doing all right, the shorter man said.Fathead's gonna be pleased. A very gratifying consignment, his companion said. However, we'dbest hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge? Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway. The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period. Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. Like always, he grumbled. No nood dames. I like nood dames. Look at this, Manny! The textures alone— Manny looked. Yeah, nice use of values, he conceded. But I stillprefer nood dames, Fiorello. And this! Fiorello lifted the next painting. Look at that gay playof rich browns! I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street, Manny said. They waspopular with the sparrows. Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations— Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on. Manny, turning to place a paintingin the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The paintingclattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. Uh.... Oh-oh, Manny said. A double-cross. I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen, Dan said. I— I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. Let's blow,Fiorello. Wait a minute, Dan said. Before you do anything hasty— Don't start nothing, Buster, Manny said cautiously. We're plentytough guys when aroused. I want to talk to you, Dan insisted. You see, these paintings— Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was thegent's room— Never mind, Manny, Fiorello cut in. It appears there's been a leak. Dan shook his head. No leak. I simply deduced— Look, Fiorello, Manny said. You chin if you want to; I'm doing afast fade. Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end. Wait a minute! Dan shouted. I'd like to make a deal with youfellows. Ah-hah! Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. I knew it! Slane, youcrook! <doc-sep>Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.It appeared Kelly hedged his bets. Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything! Dan called. He turned back toFiorello. Listen, I figured out— Pretty clever! Kelly's voice barked. Inside job. But it takes morethan the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly. Perhaps you were right, Manny, Fiorello said. Complications arearising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste. He edged towardthe cage. What about this ginzo? Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. He's on tous. Can't be helped. Look—I want to go with you! Dan shouted. I'll bet you do! Kelly's voice roared. One more minute and I'll havethe door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, didyou? You can't go, my dear fellow, Fiorello said. Room for two, no more. Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. Heaimed it at Manny. You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello inthe time machine. Are you nuts? Manny demanded. I'm flattered, dear boy, Fiorello said, but— Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute. You can't leave me here! Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd intothe cage beside Fiorello. We'll send for you, Dan said. Let's go, Fiorello. The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into thefar corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twistedaside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered backinto the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault. Manny! Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid hiscompanion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on hisheels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. Acop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dangrabbed a lever at random and pulled. Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectralKelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Danswallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like anelevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides. Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was trickybusiness. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezingin among brick and mortar particles.... But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just theway he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way.The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawledback into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theftof the past decade on him. It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out thecontrols.... <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall. Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future. He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere.... Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall. A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table— The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt. Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back.... Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn. He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup— Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants— The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled— With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it— He covered his ears, braced himself— With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded. With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something. II Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes. Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor. I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor. What happened to Manny and Fiorello? They—I—There was this cop. Kelly— Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer. Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth. How ... what...? The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way? I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely. Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings? Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky. Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling. I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices. <doc-sep>Gosh, no, Dan reassured the eye. I'm crazy about—uh— Vorplischers, the voice said. From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you callit. The Bronx cheer sounded again. How I long to glimpse once more mynative fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home. That reminds me, Dan said. I have to be running along now. Hesidled toward the door. Stick around, Dan, the voice rumbled. How about a drink? I canoffer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,Pepsi— No, thanks. If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange. The Vorplischerswiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted witha nipple and turned back to Dan. Now, I got a proposition which may beof some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a seriousblow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a mostopportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of thepicture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. Howdoes that grab you? You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine? Time machine? The brown eyes blinked alternately. I fear someconfusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term. That thing, Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. The machine I camehere in. You want me— Time machine, the voice repeated. Some sort of chronometer, perhaps? Huh? I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess theimplied concept snows me. The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. Clue me, Dan. What's atime machine? Well, it's what you use to travel through time. The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. Apparently I've lousedup my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no ideayou were capable of that sort of thing. The immense head leaned back,the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. And to think I've beenspinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art! But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one? That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your timemachines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted atthis development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet asEndsville. <doc-sep>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway— I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant. But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that. You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return— I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine? Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan? Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine— Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously. I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street. A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex? Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and— That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it. Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on. <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid. I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway. Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure. Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated. Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place. Very well, Dan. Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained. The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once. Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers. That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong— The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and— You! a hoarse voice bellowed. Grab him! someone yelled. Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall. III Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then— A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction. The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth. The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch. As the glow died, the siren faded into silence. Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls— There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through. Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth. Alors, monsieur , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow. Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas? No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay.... My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. That siren, Dan said. Was that you? Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked. The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. Inter-what? Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary. What do you want with me? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Dan and Blote?

Dan first meets Blote when he finally stops the carrier. Blote is a giant, strange man with a beachball-like head and many fingers, with a mouth above his eyes. Dan is immediately intimidated and fascinated by Blote, and Blote, aware of his superiority, requests that Dan replace Manny and Fiorello in the art stealing scheme. When Dan refuses, Blote orders that he find him a time machine and threatens to punish him for trespassing. Dan manages to fool Blote, but the two have an imbalanced power relationship, where Blote is much more powerful than Dan.

What happens to Dan throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the lowceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed awhite glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly'sorder. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up awell-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer. It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone offwithout a hitch. Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearingfrom closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It wasobvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of largecanvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locksundamaged. Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someonewho hadn't entered in the usual way. Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. TheSnithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. Withsuch a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in thevault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how theyoperated. He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one ofthe brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, heslid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-aircafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gatheredat a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in amagazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardlyseemed worth all the effort.... He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glowof the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from thenight-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give hima momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He gropedhis way to the bunk. So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them offthere'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whateverhis discovery might mean to him. But he was ready. Let them come. <doc-sep>Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenlyfrom a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowdedshelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air. The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of anout-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figureswere visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework. A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cagemoved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cagesettled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostlyswitches.... The glow died. Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouthwas dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that itwas here— Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he hadprepared for the occasion: Greeting, visitors from the Future.... Hopelessly corny. What about: Welcome to the Twentieth Century.... No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs toDan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it nowlooked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, witha cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieveslooked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender andbalding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticedDan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on thetable, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked atthe stacked shelves. Looks like the old boy's been doing all right, the shorter man said.Fathead's gonna be pleased. A very gratifying consignment, his companion said. However, we'dbest hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge? Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway. The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period. Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. Like always, he grumbled. No nood dames. I like nood dames. Look at this, Manny! The textures alone— Manny looked. Yeah, nice use of values, he conceded. But I stillprefer nood dames, Fiorello. And this! Fiorello lifted the next painting. Look at that gay playof rich browns! I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street, Manny said. They waspopular with the sparrows. Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations— Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on. Manny, turning to place a paintingin the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The paintingclattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. Uh.... Oh-oh, Manny said. A double-cross. I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen, Dan said. I— I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. Let's blow,Fiorello. Wait a minute, Dan said. Before you do anything hasty— Don't start nothing, Buster, Manny said cautiously. We're plentytough guys when aroused. I want to talk to you, Dan insisted. You see, these paintings— Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was thegent's room— Never mind, Manny, Fiorello cut in. It appears there's been a leak. Dan shook his head. No leak. I simply deduced— Look, Fiorello, Manny said. You chin if you want to; I'm doing afast fade. Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end. Wait a minute! Dan shouted. I'd like to make a deal with youfellows. Ah-hah! Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. I knew it! Slane, youcrook! <doc-sep>Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.It appeared Kelly hedged his bets. Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything! Dan called. He turned back toFiorello. Listen, I figured out— Pretty clever! Kelly's voice barked. Inside job. But it takes morethan the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly. Perhaps you were right, Manny, Fiorello said. Complications arearising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste. He edged towardthe cage. What about this ginzo? Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. He's on tous. Can't be helped. Look—I want to go with you! Dan shouted. I'll bet you do! Kelly's voice roared. One more minute and I'll havethe door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, didyou? You can't go, my dear fellow, Fiorello said. Room for two, no more. Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. Heaimed it at Manny. You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello inthe time machine. Are you nuts? Manny demanded. I'm flattered, dear boy, Fiorello said, but— Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute. You can't leave me here! Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd intothe cage beside Fiorello. We'll send for you, Dan said. Let's go, Fiorello. The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into thefar corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twistedaside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered backinto the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault. Manny! Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid hiscompanion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on hisheels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. Acop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dangrabbed a lever at random and pulled. Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectralKelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Danswallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like anelevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides. Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was trickybusiness. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezingin among brick and mortar particles.... But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just theway he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way.The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawledback into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theftof the past decade on him. It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out thecontrols.... <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall. Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future. He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere.... Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall. A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table— The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt. Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back.... Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn. He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup— Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants— The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled— With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it— He covered his ears, braced himself— With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded. With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something. II Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes. Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor. I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor. What happened to Manny and Fiorello? They—I—There was this cop. Kelly— Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer. Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth. How ... what...? The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way? I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely. Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings? Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky. Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling. I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices. <doc-sep>Gosh, no, Dan reassured the eye. I'm crazy about—uh— Vorplischers, the voice said. From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you callit. The Bronx cheer sounded again. How I long to glimpse once more mynative fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home. That reminds me, Dan said. I have to be running along now. Hesidled toward the door. Stick around, Dan, the voice rumbled. How about a drink? I canoffer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,Pepsi— No, thanks. If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange. The Vorplischerswiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted witha nipple and turned back to Dan. Now, I got a proposition which may beof some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a seriousblow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a mostopportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of thepicture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. Howdoes that grab you? You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine? Time machine? The brown eyes blinked alternately. I fear someconfusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term. That thing, Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. The machine I camehere in. You want me— Time machine, the voice repeated. Some sort of chronometer, perhaps? Huh? I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess theimplied concept snows me. The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. Clue me, Dan. What's atime machine? Well, it's what you use to travel through time. The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. Apparently I've lousedup my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no ideayou were capable of that sort of thing. The immense head leaned back,the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. And to think I've beenspinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art! But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one? That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your timemachines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted atthis development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet asEndsville. <doc-sep>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway— I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant. But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that. You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return— I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine? Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan? Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine— Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously. I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street. A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex? Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and— That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it. Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on. <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid. I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway. Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure. Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated. Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place. Very well, Dan. Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained. The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once. Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers. That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong— The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and— You! a hoarse voice bellowed. Grab him! someone yelled. Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall. III Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then— A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction. The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth. The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch. As the glow died, the siren faded into silence. Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls— There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through. Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth. Alors, monsieur , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow. Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas? No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay.... My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. That siren, Dan said. Was that you? Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked. The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. Inter-what? Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary. What do you want with me? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Dan throughout the story?

Dan first proposes to Snithian that he take on the job of guarding his art vault at night in order to catch the mysterious, serial art thieves. Snithian declines, but Kelly, head of security, accepts, and that night Dan is settled into the vault. After a few hours, Dan is shocked to see a machine appear out of thin air, where two men appear to steal the art. Dan believes this is a time machine, but Kelly suddenly arrives and threatens to arrest Dan, believing he is part of an inside job. Dan attempts to escape with the carrier, and after a few detours, he ends up in the office of a large man named Blote. He asks Blote about the carrier, implying that it is a time machine, but Blote demands that Dan supply him with a time machine, as his people have never seen one. Dan leads Blote back to the Snithian office, where Manny and Fiorello see him, but he manages to escape once again. Then, Dan hears a siren as the carrier hurdles through the air, and he is met by a man who says he is from the Inter-dimensional Monitor Service.

What equipment is used in the story? [SEP] <s> THE STAR-SENT KNAVES BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by Gaughan [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When the Great Galactic Union first encounters Earth ... is this what is going to happen? I Clyde W. Snithian was a bald eagle of a man, dark-eyed, pot-bellied,with the large, expressive hands of a rug merchant. Round-shoulderedin a loose cloak, he blinked small reddish eyes at Dan Slane'stravel-stained six foot one. Kelly here tells me you've been demanding to see me. He nodded towardthe florid man at his side. He had a high, thin voice, like somethingthat needed oiling. Something about important information regardingsafeguarding my paintings. That's right, Mr. Snithian, Dan said. I believe I can be of greathelp to you. Help how? If you've got ideas of bilking me.... The red eyes boredinto Dan like hot pokers. Nothing like that, sir. Now, I know you have quite a system of guardshere—the papers are full of it— Damned busybodies! Sensation-mongers! If it wasn't for the press,I'd have no concern for my paintings today! Yes sir. But my point is, the one really important spot has been leftunguarded. Now, wait a minute— Kelly started. What's that? Snithian cut in. You have a hundred and fifty men guarding the house and grounds dayand night— Two hundred and twenty-five, Kelly snapped. —but no one at all in the vault with the paintings, Slane finished. Of course not, Snithian shrilled. Why should I post a man in thevault? It's under constant surveillance from the corridor outside. The Harriman paintings were removed from a locked vault, Dan said.There was a special seal on the door. It wasn't broken. By the saints, he's right, Kelly exclaimed. Maybe we ought to have aman in that vault. Another idiotic scheme to waste my money, Snithian snapped. I'vemade you responsible for security here, Kelly! Let's have no morenonsense. And throw this nincompoop out! Snithian turned and stalkedaway, his cloak flapping at his knees. I'll work cheap, Dan called after him as Kelly took his arm. I'm anart lover. Never mind that, Kelly said, escorting Dan along the corridor. Heturned in at an office and closed the door. Now, as the old buzzard said, I'm responsible for security here. Ifthose pictures go, my job goes with them. Your vault idea's not bad.Just how cheap would you work? A hundred dollars a week, Dan said promptly. Plus expenses, headded. Kelly nodded. I'll fingerprint you and run a fast agency check. Ifyou're clean, I'll put you on, starting tonight. But keep it quiet. <doc-sep>Dan looked around at the gray walls, with shelves stacked to the lowceiling with wrapped paintings. Two three-hundred-watt bulbs shed awhite glare over the tile floor, a neat white refrigerator, a bunk,an arm-chair, a bookshelf and a small table set with paper plates,plastic utensils and a portable radio—all hastily installed at Kelly'sorder. Dan opened the refrigerator, looked over the stock of salami,liverwurst, cheese and beer. He opened a loaf of bread, built up awell-filled sandwich, keyed open a can of beer. It wasn't fancy, but it would do. Phase one of the plan had gone offwithout a hitch. Basically, his idea was simple. Art collections had been disappearingfrom closely guarded galleries and homes all over the world. It wasobvious that no one could enter a locked vault, remove a stack of largecanvases and leave, unnoticed by watchful guards—and leaving the locksundamaged. Yet the paintings were gone. Someone had been in those vaults—someonewho hadn't entered in the usual way. Theory failed at that point; that left the experimental method. TheSnithian collection was the largest west of the Mississippi. Withsuch a target, the thieves were bound to show up. If Dan sat in thevault—day and night—waiting—he would see for himself how theyoperated. He finished his sandwich, went to the shelves and pulled down one ofthe brown-paper bundles. Loosening the string binding the package, heslid a painting into view. It was a gaily colored view of an open-aircafe, with a group of men and women in gay-ninetyish costumes gatheredat a table. He seemed to remember reading something about it in amagazine. It was a cheerful scene; Dan liked it. Still, it hardlyseemed worth all the effort.... He went to the wall switch and turned off the lights. The orange glowof the filaments died, leaving only a faint illumination from thenight-light over the door. When the thieves arrived, it might give hima momentary advantage if his eyes were adjusted to the dark. He gropedhis way to the bunk. So far, so good, he reflected, stretching out. When they showed up,he'd have to handle everything just right. If he scared them offthere'd be no second chance. He would have lost his crack at—whateverhis discovery might mean to him. But he was ready. Let them come. <doc-sep>Eight hours, three sandwiches and six beers later, Dan roused suddenlyfrom a light doze and sat up on the cot. Between him and the crowdedshelving, a palely luminous framework was materializing in mid-air. The apparition was an open-work cage—about the size and shape of anout-house minus the sheathing, Dan estimated breathlessly. Two figureswere visible within the structure, sitting stiffly in contoured chairs.They glowed, if anything, more brightly than the framework. A faint sound cut into the stillness—a descending whine. The cagemoved jerkily, settling toward the floor. Long blue sparks jumped,crackling, to span the closing gap; with a grate of metal, the cagesettled against the floor. The spectral men reached for ghostlyswitches.... The glow died. Dan was aware of his heart thumping painfully under his ribs. His mouthwas dry. This was the moment he'd been planning for, but now that itwas here— Never mind. He took a deep breath, ran over the speeches he hadprepared for the occasion: Greeting, visitors from the Future.... Hopelessly corny. What about: Welcome to the Twentieth Century.... No good; it lacked spontaneity. The men were rising, their backs toDan, stepping out of the skeletal frame. In the dim light it nowlooked like nothing more than a rough frame built of steel pipe, witha cluster of levers in a console before the two seats. And the thieveslooked ordinary enough: Two men in gray coveralls, one slender andbalding, the other shorter and round-faced. Neither of them noticedDan, sitting rigid on the cot. The thin man placed a lantern on thetable, twiddled a knob. A warm light sprang up. The visitors looked atthe stacked shelves. Looks like the old boy's been doing all right, the shorter man said.Fathead's gonna be pleased. A very gratifying consignment, his companion said. However, we'dbest hurry, Manny. How much time have we left on this charge? Plenty. Fifteen minutes anyway. The thin man opened a package, glanced at a painting. Ah, magnificent. Almost the equal of Picasso in his puce period. Manny shuffled through the other pictures in the stack. Like always, he grumbled. No nood dames. I like nood dames. Look at this, Manny! The textures alone— Manny looked. Yeah, nice use of values, he conceded. But I stillprefer nood dames, Fiorello. And this! Fiorello lifted the next painting. Look at that gay playof rich browns! I seen richer browns on Thirty-third Street, Manny said. They waspopular with the sparrows. Manny, sometimes I think your aspirations— Whatta ya talkin? I use a roll-on. Manny, turning to place a paintingin the cage, stopped dead as he caught sight of Dan. The paintingclattered to the floor. Dan stood, cleared his throat. Uh.... Oh-oh, Manny said. A double-cross. I've—ah—been expecting you gentlemen, Dan said. I— I told you we couldn't trust no guy with nine fingers on each hand,Manny whispered hoarsely. He moved toward the cage. Let's blow,Fiorello. Wait a minute, Dan said. Before you do anything hasty— Don't start nothing, Buster, Manny said cautiously. We're plentytough guys when aroused. I want to talk to you, Dan insisted. You see, these paintings— Paintings? Look, it was all a mistake. Like, we figured this was thegent's room— Never mind, Manny, Fiorello cut in. It appears there's been a leak. Dan shook his head. No leak. I simply deduced— Look, Fiorello, Manny said. You chin if you want to; I'm doing afast fade. Don't act hastily, Manny. You know where you'll end. Wait a minute! Dan shouted. I'd like to make a deal with youfellows. Ah-hah! Kelly's voice blared from somewhere. I knew it! Slane, youcrook! <doc-sep>Dan looked about wildly. The voice seemed to be issuing from a speaker.It appeared Kelly hedged his bets. Mr. Kelly, I can explain everything! Dan called. He turned back toFiorello. Listen, I figured out— Pretty clever! Kelly's voice barked. Inside job. But it takes morethan the likes of you to out-fox an old-timer like Eddie Kelly. Perhaps you were right, Manny, Fiorello said. Complications arearising. We'd best depart with all deliberate haste. He edged towardthe cage. What about this ginzo? Manny jerked a thumb toward Dan. He's on tous. Can't be helped. Look—I want to go with you! Dan shouted. I'll bet you do! Kelly's voice roared. One more minute and I'll havethe door open and collar the lot of you! Came up through a tunnel, didyou? You can't go, my dear fellow, Fiorello said. Room for two, no more. Dan whirled to the cot, grabbed up the pistol Kelly had supplied. Heaimed it at Manny. You stay here, Manny! I'm going with Fiorello inthe time machine. Are you nuts? Manny demanded. I'm flattered, dear boy, Fiorello said, but— Let's get moving. Kelly will have that lock open in a minute. You can't leave me here! Manny spluttered, watching Dan crowd intothe cage beside Fiorello. We'll send for you, Dan said. Let's go, Fiorello. The balding man snatched suddenly for the gun. Dan wrestled with him.The pistol fell, bounced on the floor of the cage, skidded into thefar corner of the vault. Manny charged, reaching for Dan as he twistedaside; Fiorello's elbow caught him in the mouth. Manny staggered backinto the arms of Kelly, bursting red-faced into the vault. Manny! Fiorello released his grip on Dan, lunged to aid hiscompanion. Kelly passed Manny to one of three cops crowding in on hisheels. Dan clung to the framework as Fiorello grappled with Kelly. Acop pushed past them, spotted Dan, moved in briskly for the pinch. Dangrabbed a lever at random and pulled. Sudden silence fell as the walls of the room glowed blue. A spectralKelly capered before the cage, fluorescing in the blue-violet. Danswallowed hard and nudged a second lever. The cage sank like anelevator into the floor, vivid blue washing up its sides. Hastily he reversed the control. Operating a time machine was trickybusiness. One little slip, and the Slane molecules would be squeezingin among brick and mortar particles.... But this was no time to be cautious. Things hadn't turned out just theway he'd planned, but after all, this was what he'd wanted—in a way.The time machine was his to command. And if he gave up now and crawledback into the vault, Kelly would gather him in and pin every art theftof the past decade on him. It couldn't be too hard. He'd take it slowly, figure out thecontrols.... <doc-sep>Dan took a deep breath and tried another lever. The cage rose gently,in eerie silence. It reached the ceiling and kept going. Dan grittedhis teeth as an eight-inch band of luminescence passed down the cage.Then he was emerging into a spacious kitchen. A blue-haloed cookwaddled to a luminous refrigerator, caught sight of Dan rising slowlyfrom the floor, stumbled back, mouth open. The cage rose, penetrated asecond ceiling. Dan looked around at a carpeted hall. Cautiously he neutralized the control lever. The cage came to rest aninch above the floor. As far as Dan could tell, he hadn't traveled somuch as a minute into the past or future. He looked over the controls. There should be one labeled Forwardand another labeled Back, but all the levers were plain, unadornedblack. They looked, Dan decided, like ordinary circuit-breaker typeknife-switches. In fact, the whole apparatus had the appearance ofsomething thrown together hastily from common materials. Still, itworked. So far he had only found the controls for maneuvering in theusual three dimensions, but the time switch was bound to be heresomewhere.... Dan looked up at a movement at the far end of the hall. A girl's head and shoulders appeared, coming up a spiral staircase. Inanother second she would see him, and give the alarm—and Dan neededa few moments of peace and quiet in which to figure out the controls.He moved a lever. The cage drifted smoothly sideways, sliced throughthe wall with a flurry of vivid blue light. Dan pushed the leverback. He was in a bedroom now, a wide chamber with flouncy curtains, afour-poster under a flowered canopy, a dressing table— The door opened and the girl stepped into the room. She was young. Notover eighteen, Dan thought—as nearly as he could tell with the bluelight playing around her face. She had long hair tied with a ribbon,and long legs, neatly curved. She wore shorts and carried a tennisracquet in her left hand and an apple in her right. Her back to Dan andthe cage, she tossed the racquet on a table, took a bite of the apple,and began briskly unbuttoning her shirt. Dan tried moving a lever. The cage edged toward the girl. Another;he rose gently. The girl tossed the shirt onto a chair and undid thezipper down the side of the shorts. Another lever; the cage shot towardthe outer wall as the girl reached behind her back.... Dan blinked at the flash of blue and looked down. He was hoveringtwenty feet above a clipped lawn. He looked at the levers. Wasn't it the first one in line that moved thecage ahead? He tried it, shot forward ten feet. Below, a man steppedout on the terrace, lit a cigarette, paused, started to turn his faceup— Dan jabbed at a lever. The cage shot back through the wall. He was in aplain room with a depression in the floor, a wide window with a planterfilled with glowing blue plants— The door opened. Even blue, the girl looked graceful as a deer as shetook a last bite of the apple and stepped into the ten-foot-squaresunken tub. Dan held his breath. The girl tossed the apple core aside,seemed to suddenly become aware of eyes on her, whirled— With a sudden lurch that threw Dan against the steel bars, thecage shot through the wall into the open air and hurtled off withan acceleration that kept him pinned, helpless. He groped for thecontrols, hauled at a lever. There was no change. The cage rushedon, rising higher. In the distance, Dan saw the skyline of a town,approaching with frightful speed. A tall office building reared upfifteen stories high. He was headed dead for it— He covered his ears, braced himself— With an abruptness that flung him against the opposite side of thecage, the machine braked, shot through the wall and slammed to a stop.Dan sank to the floor of the cage, breathing hard. There was a loud click! and the glow faded. With a lunge, Dan scrambled out of the cage. He stood looking around ata simple brown-painted office, dimly lit by sunlight filtered throughelaborate venetian blinds. There were posters on the wall, a pottedplant by the door, a heap of framed paintings beside it, and at the farside of the room a desk. And behind the desk—Something. II Dan gaped at a head the size of a beachball, mounted on a torso like ahundred-gallon bag of water. Two large brown eyes blinked at him frompoints eight inches apart. Immense hands with too many fingers unfoldedand reached to open a brown paper carton, dip in, then toss threepeanuts, deliberately, one by one, into a gaping mouth that opened justabove the brown eyes. Who're you? a bass voice demanded from somewhere near the floor. I'm ... I'm ... Dan Slane ... your honor. What happened to Manny and Fiorello? They—I—There was this cop. Kelly— Oh-oh. The brown eyes blinked deliberately. The many-fingered handsclosed the peanut carton and tucked it into a drawer. Well, it was a sweet racket while it lasted, the basso voice said. Apity to terminate so happy an enterprise. Still.... A noise like anamplified Bronx cheer issued from the wide mouth. How ... what...? The carrier returns here automatically when the charge drops below acritical value, the voice said. A necessary measure to discouragebig ideas on the part of wisenheimers in my employ. May I ask how youhappen to be aboard the carrier, by the way? I just wanted—I mean, after I figured out—that is, the police ... Iwent for help, Dan finished lamely. Help? Out of the picture, unfortunately. One must maintain one'sanonymity, you'll appreciate. My operation here is under wraps atpresent. Ah, I don't suppose you brought any paintings? Dan shook his head. He was staring at the posters. His eyes,accustoming themselves to the gloom of the office, could now make outthe vividly drawn outline of a creature resembling an alligator-headedgiraffe rearing up above scarlet foliage. The next poster showed a facesimilar to the beachball behind the desk, with red circles paintedaround the eyes. The next was a view of a yellow volcano spouting fireinto a black sky. Too bad. The words seemed to come from under the desk. Dan squinted,caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He gulped and looked upto catch a brown eye upon him. Only one. The other seemed to be busilyat work studying the ceiling. I hope, the voice said, that you ain't harboring no reactionaryracial prejudices. <doc-sep>Gosh, no, Dan reassured the eye. I'm crazy about—uh— Vorplischers, the voice said. From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you callit. The Bronx cheer sounded again. How I long to glimpse once more mynative fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home. That reminds me, Dan said. I have to be running along now. Hesidled toward the door. Stick around, Dan, the voice rumbled. How about a drink? I canoffer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,Pepsi— No, thanks. If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange. The Vorplischerswiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted witha nipple and turned back to Dan. Now, I got a proposition which may beof some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a seriousblow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a mostopportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of thepicture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. Howdoes that grab you? You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine? Time machine? The brown eyes blinked alternately. I fear someconfusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term. That thing, Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. The machine I camehere in. You want me— Time machine, the voice repeated. Some sort of chronometer, perhaps? Huh? I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess theimplied concept snows me. The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. Clue me, Dan. What's atime machine? Well, it's what you use to travel through time. The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. Apparently I've lousedup my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no ideayou were capable of that sort of thing. The immense head leaned back,the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. And to think I've beenspinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art! But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one? That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your timemachines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted atthis development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet asEndsville. <doc-sep>Your superiors? Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe hecould reach the machine and try a getaway— I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly, the beachball said,following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inchyellow cylinder lying on the desk. Until the carrier is fueled, I'mafraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd bestintroduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader FourthClass, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to developnew sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entireSecondary Quadrant. But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That has to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could justmaterialize out of thin air like that. You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan, Blote said. Youshouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel,that everyone has. Now— Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper—I'llmake a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in goodcondition for me. And in return— I'm supposed to supply you with a time machine? Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. I dislike pointing it out,Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegalentry, illegal possession of property, trespass—then doubtless someembarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr.Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself woulddeal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder.The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under thedesk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. Whereas, on the other hand, Blote's bass voice went on, you and megot the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you upwith an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, Ishould say. What about it, Dan? Ah, let me see, Dan temporized. Time machine. Time machine— Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan, Blote rumbled ominously. I'd better look in the phone book, Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. Time, time. Let's see.... He brightened. Time, Incorporated; localbranch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street. A sales center? Blote inquired. Or a manufacturing complex? Both, Dan said. I'll just nip over and— That won't be necessary, Dan, Blote said. I'll accompany you. Hetook the directory, studied it. Remarkable! A common commodity, openly on sale, and I failed to noticeit. Still, a ripe nut can fall from a small tree as well as from alarge. He went to his desk, rummaged, came up with a handful of fuelcells. Now, off to gather in the time machine. He took his place inthe carrier, patted the seat beside him with a wide hand. Come, Dan.Get a wiggle on. <doc-sep>Hesitantly, Dan moved to the carrier. The bluff was all right up to apoint—but the point had just about been reached. He took his seat.Blote moved a lever. The familiar blue glow sprang up. Kindly directme, Dan, Blote demanded. Two twenty-one Maple Street, I believe yousaid. I don't know the town very well, Dan said, but Maple's over thatway. Blote worked levers. The carrier shot out into a ghostly afternoon sky.Faint outlines of buildings, like faded negatives, spread below. Danlooked around, spotted lettering on a square five-story structure. Over there, he said. Blote directed the machine as it swoopedsmoothly toward the flat roof Dan indicated. Better let me take over now, Dan suggested. I want to be sure toget us to the right place. Very well, Dan. Dan dropped the carrier through the roof, passed down through a dimlyseen office. Blote twiddled a small knob. The scene around the cagegrew even fainter. Best we remain unnoticed, he explained. The cage descended steadily. Dan peered out, searching for identifyinglandmarks. He leveled off at the second floor, cruised along a barelyvisible corridor. Blote's eyes rolled, studying the small chambersalong both sides of the passage at once. Ah, this must be the assembly area, he exclaimed. I see the machinesemploy a bar-type construction, not unlike our carriers. That's right, Dan said, staring through the haziness. This is wherethey do time.... He tugged at a lever suddenly; the machine veeredleft, flickered through a barred door, came to a halt. Two nebulousfigures loomed beside the cage. Dan cut the switch. If he'd guessedwrong— The scene fluoresced, sparks crackling, then popped into sharp focus.Blote scrambled out, brown eyes swivelling to take in the concretewalls, the barred door and— You! a hoarse voice bellowed. Grab him! someone yelled. Blote recoiled, threshing his ambulatory members in a fruitless attemptto regain the carrier as Manny and Fiorello closed in. Dan hauled at alever. He caught a last glimpse of three struggling, blue-lit figuresas the carrier shot away through the cell wall. III Dan slumped back against the seat with a sigh. Now that he was in theclear, he would have to decide on his next move—fast. There was notelling what other resources Blote might have. He would have to hidethe carrier, then— A low growling was coming from somewhere, rising in pitch and volume.Dan sat up, alarmed. This was no time for a malfunction. The sound rose higher, into a penetrating wail. There was no sign ofmechanical trouble. The carrier glided on, swooping now over a nebulouslandscape of trees and houses. Dan covered his ears against thedeafening shriek, like all the police sirens in town blaring at once.If the carrier stopped it would be a long fall from here. Dan workedthe controls, dropping toward the distant earth. The noise seemed to lessen, descending the scale. Dan slowed, broughtthe carrier in to the corner of a wide park. He dropped the last fewinches and cut the switch. As the glow died, the siren faded into silence. Dan stepped from the carrier and looked around. Whatever the noisewas, it hadn't attracted any attention from the scattered pedestriansin the park. Perhaps it was some sort of burglar alarm. But if so, whyhadn't it gone into action earlier? Dan took a deep breath. Sound or nosound, he would have to get back into the carrier and transfer it to asecluded spot where he could study it at leisure. He stepped back in,reached for the controls— There was a sudden chill in the air. The bright surface of the dialsbefore him frosted over. There was a loud pop! like a flashbulbexploding. Dan stared from the seat at an iridescent rectanglewhich hung suspended near the carrier. Its surface rippled, fadedto blankness. In a swirl of frosty air, a tall figure dressed in atight-fitting white uniform stepped through. Dan gaped at the small rounded head, the dark-skinned long-nosed face,the long, muscular arms, the hands, their backs tufted with curlyred-brown hair, the strange long-heeled feet in soft boots. A neatpillbox cap with a short visor was strapped low over the deep-setyellowish eyes, which turned in his direction. The wide mouth opened ina smile which showed square yellowish teeth. Alors, monsieur , the new-comer said, bending his knees and back ina quick bow. Vous ete une indigine, n'est ce pas? No compree, Dan choked out Uh ... juh no parlay Fransay.... My error. This is the Anglic colonial sector, isn't it? Stupid of me.Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Dzhackoon, Field Agent of Classfive, Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. That siren, Dan said. Was that you? Dzhackoon nodded. For a moment, it appeared you were disinclined tostop. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. What outfit did you say you were with? Dan asked. The Inter-dimensional Monitor Service. Inter-what? Dimensional. The word is imprecise, of course, but it's the best ourlanguage coder can do, using the Anglic vocabulary. What do you want with me? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What equipment is used in the story?

The main piece of equipment used in the story is the carrier that Manny and Fiorello arrive in. The carrier contains lots of different levers and controls that make it difficult to navigate. It is able to appear out of thin air, a cage-like structure that has a blue luminous glow to it. Despite the futuristic abilities of the carrier, it is made up of common parts and is not the sturdiest. The carrier is able to appear in random places, but it is also used by Blote to travel to Maple Street.

<s> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down. What can I do for you? Retief said. You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...? No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet— Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in? Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief. It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what— Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture— I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work. Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know.... You say it's time now for the wine crop? That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year. <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year.... The crop isn't panning out? Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop. Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial— Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else! It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time. Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said. This isn't drinking . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked. Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs. Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully. Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport. Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer. A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass. Happy days, he said. And nights to match. You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting.... You meeting somebody? Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme. Thanks. You a Scoutmaster? I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you? Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you? The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh? I represent MUDDLE. Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon— He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along? Retief nodded. Might as well. <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out. Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact? The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking— You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up! We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon. Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey. We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner. Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know. Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now? Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter. Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here. Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers. Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents? Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received. Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor? Why, the University at d'Land, of course. Would that be the Technical College? Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails. Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense. Mr. Magnan never— For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy. Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom! About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program? Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways— I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can. <doc-sep>Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices. Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow. Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor. You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle. That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower. There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1— Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you. Probably—among other things. Thank you. Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths— Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors? Five hundred. Are you sure? Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent— Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment. Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly. I sincerely hope not, Retief said. III Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively. It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages.... Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache. Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units.... That's correct. Five hundred. Retief waited. Ah ... are you there, Retief? I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors. It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle— One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think— See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle— I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors? I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached! I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking— <doc-sep>Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction. What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit. Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line? Certainly. You may speak freely. The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties. I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection? Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha. Who gets the tractors eventually? Retief, this is unwarranted interference! Who gets them? They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see— And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material? Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative. And when will they be shipped? Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking! How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary. Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students. Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in. Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him. I'll ask him if he has time. Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room. What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous. How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired. Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers. What would you say to two thousand? Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling? I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk. Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait. Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy. Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me. Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone. Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols— It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do.... Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally. IV Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port. What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded. You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded? Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it! No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous. Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him? I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said. The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students. The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to. Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong? Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow? What seems to be the problem? Retief said. Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry! Who told you it was impounded? Never mind! I have my sources! Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said. That's right. What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without— These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver? From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments? The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage.... Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error.... <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

Second Secretary Magnan will be away from the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education (MUDDLE) for two weeks, leaving Retief in charge. Magnan reminds Retief that his role is to act as a rubber stamp, continuing Magnan’s actions. Magnan points out that Retief should appreciate that Bogan is participating in the Exchange Program. Its participation might be a step toward sublimating their aggression into more cultivated channels. The Bogans are sending two thousand students to d’Land as exchange students, and Magnan thinks this might end their aggression and bring them into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Retief wonders aloud what the students will study in such a poor, industrial land. Magnan points out that this is none of Retief’s concern and that his role is simply to facilitate bringing the two groups together. When Miss Furkle, the secretary, buzzes Magnan that the bucolic person from Lovenbroy is there again, Magnan pushes the meeting off onto Retief.The person from Lovenbroy is named Hank Arapoulous. He is a farmer and tells Retief that the Bacchus vines that they use to make their wine mature every twelve years and that this year is a harvest year, but they are short on workers to harvest the grapes. They have a shortage of workers for the harvest due to their conflict over strip mining and the loss of several of their young men in the battles to prevent it. Also, Lovenbroy had to borrow money from Croanie, and the loan was due. The wine crop will put them in the clear if they can harvest it. The biggest concern is what Croanie will do with the land if they can’t pay the loan; Lovenbroy has offered half its grape acreage as security for the loan it received. Hank asks Retief for a loan, but Retief tells him that MEDDLE’s role is only for transportation. Hank says he also checked with the Labor Office, but it only offered to set them up with machinery. Retief attends a council meeting and learns that Croanie will receive a shipment of strip mining equipment. A spokesman for the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) indicates he has been trying to get mining equipment for d’Land. He tells Retief that Boge is a troublemaker, so all the agencies in the Corps are trying to appease her. Upon further discussion, Retief learns that d’Land doesn’t have a university for the exchange students to attend, just a technical college that would be overwhelmed to receive 200, much less 2,000, students. Retief also learns that all the exchange students are males, and their “luggage” is full of weapons. He diverts their luggage and sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy, where they help harvest the grapes. Retief is also sent to Lovenbroy for exceeding his authority. Hank tells Retief that he has won the prize for the picking competition. The prize is a girl named Delinda.

<s> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down. What can I do for you? Retief said. You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...? No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet— Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in? Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief. It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what— Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture— I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work. Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know.... You say it's time now for the wine crop? That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year. <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year.... The crop isn't panning out? Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop. Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial— Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else! It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time. Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said. This isn't drinking . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked. Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs. Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully. Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport. Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer. A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass. Happy days, he said. And nights to match. You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting.... You meeting somebody? Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme. Thanks. You a Scoutmaster? I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you? Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you? The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh? I represent MUDDLE. Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon— He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along? Retief nodded. Might as well. <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out. Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact? The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking— You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up! We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon. Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey. We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner. Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know. Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now? Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter. Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here. Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers. Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents? Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received. Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor? Why, the University at d'Land, of course. Would that be the Technical College? Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails. Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense. Mr. Magnan never— For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy. Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom! About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program? Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways— I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can. <doc-sep>Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices. Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow. Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor. You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle. That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower. There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1— Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you. Probably—among other things. Thank you. Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths— Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors? Five hundred. Are you sure? Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent— Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment. Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly. I sincerely hope not, Retief said. III Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively. It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages.... Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache. Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units.... That's correct. Five hundred. Retief waited. Ah ... are you there, Retief? I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors. It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle— One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think— See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle— I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors? I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached! I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking— <doc-sep>Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction. What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit. Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line? Certainly. You may speak freely. The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties. I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection? Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha. Who gets the tractors eventually? Retief, this is unwarranted interference! Who gets them? They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see— And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material? Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative. And when will they be shipped? Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking! How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary. Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students. Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in. Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him. I'll ask him if he has time. Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room. What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous. How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired. Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers. What would you say to two thousand? Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling? I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk. Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait. Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy. Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me. Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone. Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols— It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do.... Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally. IV Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port. What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded. You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded? Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it! No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous. Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him? I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said. The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students. The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to. Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong? Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow? What seems to be the problem? Retief said. Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry! Who told you it was impounded? Never mind! I have my sources! Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said. That's right. What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without— These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver? From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments? The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage.... Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error.... <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

The Bogans are people who have a history of aggression within the Nicodemean Cluster. In the last twenty years, they have launched four military campaigns against other Galaxy members; because of this, they are known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. They have agreed to send 2,000 of their students to participate in the Exchange Program in d’Land that the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education is facilitating. This agreement is a curiosity to Retief because d’Land is a poor, industrial society, so he wonders what the Bogans will study there. His superior, Second Secretary Magnan, tells him that is none of his business and to be sure not to antagonize the Bogan representative. According to the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Underdeveloped Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) committeeman, every agency in the Corps is trying to appease Boge since Boge is a well-known troublemaker. He also informs Retief that d’Land has no universities, just an under-endowed technical college that could not handle 200, much less 2,000, exchange students. He also tells Retief that most of d’Land’s problems result from an unwise trade agreement that it made with Boge. Retief meets Karsh, a Scoutmaster who trained the Bogan students; he made it like a game but says they know how to handle a CSU. As the Bogan students come through Customs and see Mr. Karsh, they snap to attention. Mr. Karsh refuses to let the students leave the airport. Retief notices that all the exchange students are males, and Karsh tells him they wanted to see how the first group of students was received before sending any females. Retief realizes that Bogan students are headed to a place that has no classrooms for the students. In the meantime, the tractors are being sent to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge, and Croanie holds the mortgage to the best vineyards in Lovenbroy. Retief looks up the tractors that are being sent to Croanie and discovers they are armored vehicles with a half-megaton per second firepower. Retief learns that these continental siege units are ultimately being sent to Lovenbroy, which is rich in minerals, on behalf of Boge. Retief also learns that Boge has an application to send another 2,000 students to Croanie and is considering sending 2,000 more to Featherweight. Retief learns that Boge tried to take over Lovenbroy several years earlier and would have succeeded if not for bad luck. Retief calls a friend who works in transport and learns that the Bogan students’ luggage is all being sent to Lovenbroy, and when he looked in the luggage, it was all weapons. Retief diverts the luggage and sends the students on to Lovenbroy to help with the grape harvest for the vineyards. He impounds the luggage full of weapons.

<s> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down. What can I do for you? Retief said. You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...? No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet— Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in? Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief. It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what— Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture— I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work. Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know.... You say it's time now for the wine crop? That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year. <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year.... The crop isn't panning out? Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop. Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial— Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else! It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time. Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said. This isn't drinking . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked. Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs. Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully. Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport. Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer. A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass. Happy days, he said. And nights to match. You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting.... You meeting somebody? Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme. Thanks. You a Scoutmaster? I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you? Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you? The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh? I represent MUDDLE. Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon— He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along? Retief nodded. Might as well. <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out. Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact? The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking— You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up! We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon. Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey. We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner. Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know. Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now? Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter. Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here. Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers. Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents? Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received. Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor? Why, the University at d'Land, of course. Would that be the Technical College? Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails. Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense. Mr. Magnan never— For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy. Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom! About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program? Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways— I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can. <doc-sep>Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices. Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow. Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor. You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle. That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower. There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1— Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you. Probably—among other things. Thank you. Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths— Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors? Five hundred. Are you sure? Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent— Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment. Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly. I sincerely hope not, Retief said. III Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively. It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages.... Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache. Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units.... That's correct. Five hundred. Retief waited. Ah ... are you there, Retief? I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors. It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle— One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think— See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle— I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors? I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached! I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking— <doc-sep>Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction. What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit. Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line? Certainly. You may speak freely. The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties. I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection? Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha. Who gets the tractors eventually? Retief, this is unwarranted interference! Who gets them? They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see— And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material? Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative. And when will they be shipped? Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking! How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary. Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students. Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in. Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him. I'll ask him if he has time. Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room. What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous. How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired. Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers. What would you say to two thousand? Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling? I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk. Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait. Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy. Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me. Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone. Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols— It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do.... Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally. IV Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port. What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded. You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded? Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it! No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous. Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him? I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said. The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students. The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to. Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong? Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow? What seems to be the problem? Retief said. Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry! Who told you it was impounded? Never mind! I have my sources! Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said. That's right. What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without— These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver? From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments? The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage.... Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error.... <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

Hank Arapoulousis is first described as a “bucolic person from Lovenbroy.” He is a farmer, tall with bronze skin and gray hair, who comes to MUDDLE’s office to discuss the harvest problems in Lovenbroy. They grow Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. This year is a harvest year, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. Arapoulousis explains to Retief that a few years ago, Boge landed a force on Lovenbroy to try to mine their minerals by strip-mining. Lovenbroy fought back for a year but lost a lot of its men. This created financial problems, so Lovenbroy borrowed money from Croanie, mortgaging its crops. The loan is due, and the wine crop will cover the loan amount, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. He is worried that if they don’t have a great harvest, Croanie will come in and start mining. Also, if they default on the loan, Croanie will hold half of the grape acreage that they used to secure the loan. Arapoulousis has also asked for help from the Labor Office, but they only offered to send them machinery, and machines cannot harvest the grapes. He returns to see Retief the following day to find out if Retief has discovered a way to help. When Mr. Karsh makes a scene about the missing luggage for the exchange students, Retief has Arapoulousis take Karsh away and “take care of him.” When they return, Karsh is stumbling and needs support to stand up. Arapoulousis explains that Karsh fell. Retief sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy with Arapoulousis to help with the harvest. As the harvest is winding down, Arapoulousis tells Retief that Retief has won the award for the picking competition. Arapoulousis is also the person who judges the wine contest.

<s> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down. What can I do for you? Retief said. You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...? No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet— Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in? Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief. It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what— Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture— I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work. Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know.... You say it's time now for the wine crop? That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year. <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year.... The crop isn't panning out? Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop. Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial— Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else! It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time. Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said. This isn't drinking . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked. Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs. Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully. Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport. Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer. A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass. Happy days, he said. And nights to match. You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting.... You meeting somebody? Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme. Thanks. You a Scoutmaster? I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you? Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you? The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh? I represent MUDDLE. Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon— He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along? Retief nodded. Might as well. <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out. Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact? The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking— You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up! We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon. Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey. We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner. Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know. Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now? Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter. Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here. Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers. Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents? Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received. Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor? Why, the University at d'Land, of course. Would that be the Technical College? Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails. Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense. Mr. Magnan never— For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy. Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom! About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program? Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways— I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can. <doc-sep>Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices. Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow. Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor. You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle. That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower. There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1— Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you. Probably—among other things. Thank you. Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths— Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors? Five hundred. Are you sure? Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent— Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment. Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly. I sincerely hope not, Retief said. III Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively. It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages.... Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache. Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units.... That's correct. Five hundred. Retief waited. Ah ... are you there, Retief? I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors. It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle— One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think— See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle— I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors? I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached! I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking— <doc-sep>Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction. What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit. Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line? Certainly. You may speak freely. The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties. I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection? Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha. Who gets the tractors eventually? Retief, this is unwarranted interference! Who gets them? They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see— And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material? Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative. And when will they be shipped? Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking! How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary. Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students. Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in. Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him. I'll ask him if he has time. Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room. What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous. How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired. Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers. What would you say to two thousand? Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling? I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk. Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait. Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy. Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me. Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone. Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols— It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do.... Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally. IV Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port. What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded. You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded? Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it! No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous. Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him? I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said. The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students. The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to. Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong? Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow? What seems to be the problem? Retief said. Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry! Who told you it was impounded? Never mind! I have my sources! Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said. That's right. What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without— These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver? From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments? The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage.... Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error.... <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

Lovenbroy is one of the members of the Nicodemean Cluster and part of the cultural life of the Galaxy. Lovenbroy is known for its exquisite wines produced from the Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. Lovenbroy is important for the Galaxy culture because, during the time when it is not raising and harvesting grapes and other crops, it makes important cultural contributions. They have created parks and farms and left sizable forests for hunting. They offer skiing, bob-sledding, and ice skating in the spring while it is still cold. They also create fine furniture, sculpture, and art. During the summer, they offer beach parties, drama, and symphonies. The land is full of minerals, which led Boge to land a force to strip-mine some of the resources. Lovenbroy fought back, but it took a year, and it lost many men. This has left Lovenbroy short-handed for this year’s grape harvest. It also took a financial toll on Lovenbroy, and it had to borrow money from Croanie, mortgage its crops, and export its artwork. The loan is due during the harvest year, and without enough men to pick the grapes, Croanie will come in and take over half the vineyard land and mine it. Croanie is under obligation to Boge, and Boge is behind the scheme of sending “exchange students” supposedly to d’Land but really to Lovenbroy to take its minerals.

<s> CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER It was a simple student exchange—but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents. That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit. I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function. In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear. I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels. I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation. Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety. Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree. A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle? That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval. This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you. If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton. Send the bucolic person in. <doc-sep>A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down. What can I do for you? Retief said. You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...? No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet— Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in? Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief. It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what— Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture— I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work. Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know.... You say it's time now for the wine crop? That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year. <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year.... The crop isn't panning out? Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop. Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial— Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else! It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time. Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said. This isn't drinking . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked. Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs. Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully. Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport. Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep>Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time— Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning. I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid. Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage— You hocked the vineyards? Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time. On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat.... What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture— Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players— Can they pick grapes? Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office? Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves. The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen. You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet. Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know. II As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table. Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting? Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment. Drill rigs, that sort of thing? Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities? Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon— That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business. Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE— SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm. That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head. What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution. University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college. Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College? Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax thefacilities of the college. I wonder if the Bogans know that? The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away. <doc-sep>Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer. A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass. Happy days, he said. And nights to match. You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting.... You meeting somebody? Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme. Thanks. You a Scoutmaster? I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you? Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you? The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh? I represent MUDDLE. Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon— He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along? Retief nodded. Might as well. <doc-sep>At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out. Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact? The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking— You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up! We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon. Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey. We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner. Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know. Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now? Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter. Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here. Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers. Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents? Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received. Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle. Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor? Why, the University at d'Land, of course. Would that be the Technical College? Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails. Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense. Mr. Magnan never— For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy. Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom! About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program? Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways— I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can. <doc-sep>Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices. Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow. Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor. You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle. That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower. There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1— Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you. Probably—among other things. Thank you. Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths— Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors? Five hundred. Are you sure? Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent— Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment. Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly. I sincerely hope not, Retief said. III Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively. It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages.... Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache. Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units.... That's correct. Five hundred. Retief waited. Ah ... are you there, Retief? I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors. It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle— One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think— See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle— I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors? I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached! I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking— <doc-sep>Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction. What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit. Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line? Certainly. You may speak freely. The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties. I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection? Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha. Who gets the tractors eventually? Retief, this is unwarranted interference! Who gets them? They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see— And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material? Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative. And when will they be shipped? Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking! How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary. Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students. Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in. Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him. I'll ask him if he has time. Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room. What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous. How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired. Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers. What would you say to two thousand? Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling? I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk. Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait. Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy. Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me. Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone. Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols— It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do.... Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally. IV Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port. What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded. You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded? Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it! No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous. Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him? I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said. The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students. The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to. Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong? Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow? What seems to be the problem? Retief said. Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry! Who told you it was impounded? Never mind! I have my sources! Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said. That's right. What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without— These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver? From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments? The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage.... Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error.... <doc-sep>At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all. Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened? He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said. You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it. Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with. I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard. Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head. We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel. Gulver opened his mouth. I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications. Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted. He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy. Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I.... I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage. Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it. By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land. D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies! But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect? That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange— His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education. V Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record! Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start. In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous. Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us. Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again. That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome. I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority. Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it. No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience. Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd. Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize. Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us? I had a special assignment. Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize. Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize. <doc-sep></s>

Croanie is a member of the Nicodemean Cluster of the Galaxy and is an associate of Boge, a member known to be a troublemaker. They tried to steal minerals from Lovenbroy earlier by attacking them. Croanie is under obligation to Boge. Croanie is the world that gave Lovenbroy a loan when it needed money to help tide it over until its next grape harvest. Croanie gave Lovenbroy a mortgage on its crops and holds a security interest in half of the grape acreage that it will acquire if Lovenbroy cannot meet the loan payment that is coming due. This is the reason that Hank Arapoulous goes to MEDDLE and asks for help obtaining workers to go to Lovenbroy and harvest the crop. It also turns out that Croanie is involved in Boge’s efforts to attack Lovenbroy and gain access to its minerals. Mr. Whaffle reveals to Retief that Croanie is set to receive a shipment of heavy mining equipment, but Croanie is best known for its oceans and fishing and has no ore. In addition, when the Bogan exchange students arrive without their luggage, Mr. Karsh says their luggage is coming from Croanie. When their luggage does arrive, it is full of weapons. The “tractors” that are being shipped to Croanie are really armored vehicles that are continental siege units that carry four men and have a half-megaton/second firepower. Mr. Whaffle reveals that the tractors are for transshipment and that Croanie is in a difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise, with Boge. There is also an application for 2,000 more “exchange students” to be sent to Croanie.

<s> THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone. But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time. Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books. But he's unhappy. Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late. Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ. Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight. What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies. He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent. Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket. But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said. Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call. He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout. So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river. Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away. The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise. He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling. FOUR ACES CLUB He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black. He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end. The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom. I gotta hide, kid. They're on me. Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled. The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons. Help me, kid. He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy. This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat. A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled. The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up. Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep. The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face. The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass. Go, man! The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks. Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage. He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires. <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy. What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked. Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. Sure, teener. Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state. What else, teener? One thing. Fade. Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. Okay, you creep, Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. <doc-sep>She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror. You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha. She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine. No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now. She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead. He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight. Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls. Then he yelled and slammed open the door. Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight. She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth. Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick. What's that, baby? I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference. I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said. Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen. You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up. Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry. She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him. He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her. He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees. Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running! I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat. Please. I can't, I can't! He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs. <doc-sep>Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest. You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks? Yes, sir. But you couldn't execute them? No, sir. They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton? Yes, sir. The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed? I know. Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but educated . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton? I—felt sorry for her. Is that all you can say about it? Yes, sir. The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered. You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I? No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out. Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother. Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals. They had all punked out. Like him. <doc-sep></s>

The story opens on a discussion at home between a husband and wife being overheard by their sixteen-year-old son, Wayne. They are distraught over their son’s attitude and attribute it to his age and the buildup of repressed impulses. Wayne views is parents with contempt. He reveals that he has been called to be drafted and leaves them to go to the authorities taking the family automobile.Arriving at the Youth Center, Wayne navigates the bureaucracy of being drafted which involves registering and being issued with a firearm and a switchblade. He bristles against the military authority figures at the youth center, deriding their appearance and position. Wayne is cocky and confident even as he is warned about the dangers of his mission. Wayne is assigned a mission that involves killing a known murderer and his girl. He has six hours of autonomy where he is privileged to operate outside of the normal rule of law.Wayne makes his way to a rougher neighborhood and witnesses another teenager hunt down and brutally murder a vagrant with a baseball bat. Wayne enters the bar which contains his target. He locates and engages them, shooting the man and chasing the woman out of the bar into a crumbling apartment building. When he eventually corners her, she begs him to kill her quickly. Wayne however is overcome with a physical aversion to the violence he was intending to commit.Wayne is later being evaluated back at the Youth Center. It is revealed that society engages teenagers to execute criminals as a preferred outlet for their aggressive impulses. Those that go through with an execution are initiated into the military. Wayne mournfully contemplates that “punking out” in failing to execute his targets relegates him to a shameful, nondescript life much like that of his own father.

<s> THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone. But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time. Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books. But he's unhappy. Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late. Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ. Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight. What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies. He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent. Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket. But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said. Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call. He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout. So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river. Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away. The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise. He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling. FOUR ACES CLUB He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black. He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end. The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom. I gotta hide, kid. They're on me. Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled. The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons. Help me, kid. He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy. This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat. A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled. The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up. Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep. The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face. The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass. Go, man! The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks. Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage. He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires. <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy. What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked. Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. Sure, teener. Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state. What else, teener? One thing. Fade. Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. Okay, you creep, Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. <doc-sep>She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror. You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha. She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine. No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now. She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead. He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight. Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls. Then he yelled and slammed open the door. Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight. She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth. Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick. What's that, baby? I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference. I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said. Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen. You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up. Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry. She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him. He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her. He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees. Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running! I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat. Please. I can't, I can't! He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs. <doc-sep>Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest. You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks? Yes, sir. But you couldn't execute them? No, sir. They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton? Yes, sir. The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed? I know. Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but educated . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton? I—felt sorry for her. Is that all you can say about it? Yes, sir. The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered. You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I? No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out. Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother. Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals. They had all punked out. Like him. <doc-sep></s>

The story is set in an urban environment in an unspecified time in the future. The story begins in a conventional domestic setting but quickly transitions to a Youth Center and then gritty underbelly of the city. The Youth Center is bureaucratic and clinical with Wayne making his way from registration to the Armory to his assignment. Later he returns to this center for psychological treatment. The inner-city area is known as Slumville and is filled with crumbling infrastructure and violent dealings. It is described as dark and mazelike with semi-abandoned buildings that are on the verge of collapse. The Four Aces Club where the main conflict of the story takes place is a seedy bar in Slumville where undesirables congregate. Smoky and filled with jazzy music, the club becomes a scene of tension and violence as Wayne confronts his targets there.

<s> THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone. But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time. Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books. But he's unhappy. Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late. Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ. Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight. What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies. He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent. Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket. But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said. Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call. He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout. So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river. Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away. The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise. He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling. FOUR ACES CLUB He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black. He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end. The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom. I gotta hide, kid. They're on me. Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled. The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons. Help me, kid. He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy. This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat. A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled. The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up. Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep. The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face. The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass. Go, man! The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks. Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage. He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires. <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy. What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked. Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. Sure, teener. Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state. What else, teener? One thing. Fade. Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. Okay, you creep, Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. <doc-sep>She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror. You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha. She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine. No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now. She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead. He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight. Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls. Then he yelled and slammed open the door. Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight. She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth. Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick. What's that, baby? I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference. I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said. Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen. You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up. Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry. She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him. He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her. He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees. Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running! I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat. Please. I can't, I can't! He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs. <doc-sep>Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest. You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks? Yes, sir. But you couldn't execute them? No, sir. They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton? Yes, sir. The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed? I know. Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but educated . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton? I—felt sorry for her. Is that all you can say about it? Yes, sir. The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered. You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I? No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out. Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother. Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals. They had all punked out. Like him. <doc-sep></s>

Distinctive teenage or “teener” vernacular language is used extensively throughout the story. Wayne uses slang to communicate his dismissiveness of those in authority. People who live commonplace lives are “squareheads” and “punks”. Some typical proper nouns are shortened “Olds” for Oldsmobile, “Cad” for Cadillac. The effect is to cement the story in a future where language has evolved from its current state with teens communicating in a way that distinguishes them from other more conventional member of society. Wayne’s interaction with the waiter is emblematic of this effect. By saying, “Bring me a Crusher,” and then “Fade,” it is signaled to the reader that Wayne views himself as a member of a select group with its own cant.

<s> THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone. But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time. Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books. But he's unhappy. Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late. Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ. Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight. What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies. He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent. Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket. But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said. Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call. He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout. So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river. Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away. The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise. He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling. FOUR ACES CLUB He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black. He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end. The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom. I gotta hide, kid. They're on me. Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled. The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons. Help me, kid. He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy. This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat. A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled. The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up. Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep. The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face. The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass. Go, man! The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks. Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage. He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires. <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy. What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked. Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. Sure, teener. Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state. What else, teener? One thing. Fade. Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. Okay, you creep, Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. <doc-sep>She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror. You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha. She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine. No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now. She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead. He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight. Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls. Then he yelled and slammed open the door. Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight. She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth. Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick. What's that, baby? I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference. I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said. Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen. You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up. Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry. She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him. He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her. He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees. Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running! I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat. Please. I can't, I can't! He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs. <doc-sep>Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest. You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks? Yes, sir. But you couldn't execute them? No, sir. They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton? Yes, sir. The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed? I know. Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but educated . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton? I—felt sorry for her. Is that all you can say about it? Yes, sir. The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered. You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I? No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out. Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother. Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals. They had all punked out. Like him. <doc-sep></s>

Wayne is a cocky, arrogant sixteen-year-old defined by his lack of respect for authority. His main goal in life is to be drafted into the military and lead an adventuring life.His unnamed parents care for their son but are nonplussed by his attitude and general demeanor of rebelliousness. They seem to live commonplace lives with domestic trips to the movie theatre or a neighborhood poker game. Wayne views this type of life as detestable. His interaction with his parents is crude and condescending.The military officials that Wayne meets in the Youth Center also elicit Wayne’s contempt. He views their desk jobs as an analog to his parents’ “punkie” existence. To Wayne, the only admirable way of life is one of high adventure. He disrespects most of the desk workers, but the commanding officer, Captain Jack, deflates his self-assurance.Wayne is keenly intent on hunting his targets. He stares them down tensely before violently engaging them. female target, nicknamed the “mouse”, is revealed to be a woman without hope. She’s tired of running and just wants to be put out of her misery. Surprisingly, at the moment of truth, Wayne cannot bring himself to execute the woman in cold blood, in his own words, “punking out”. He admits to the doctor analyzing him after his assignment that he felt sorry for her.

<s> THE RECRUIT BY BRYCE WALTON It was dirty work, but it would make him a man. And kids had a right to grow up—some of them! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs. The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out. The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone. But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time. Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough. Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly. We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books. But he's unhappy. Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late. Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo. How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland. But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ. Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly. They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up. Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight. What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies. He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent. Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket. But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said. Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call. He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout. So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes. Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river. Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away. The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise. He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling. FOUR ACES CLUB He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black. He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end. The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom. I gotta hide, kid. They're on me. Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled. The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons. Help me, kid. He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy. This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat. A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled. The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up. Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep. The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face. The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass. Go, man! The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks. Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage. He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires. <doc-sep>He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table. He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm. She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive. Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy. What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked. Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card. Sure, teener. Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass. Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's. Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse. The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state. What else, teener? One thing. Fade. Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup. Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head. He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good. Okay, you creep, Wayne said. He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door. Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet. He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer. Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute. He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood. <doc-sep>She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror. You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha. She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine. No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now. She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead. He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight. Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls. Then he yelled and slammed open the door. Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight. She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth. Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick. What's that, baby? I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference. I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said. Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen. You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up. Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry. She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him. He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her. He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees. Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running! I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat. Please. I can't, I can't! He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs. <doc-sep>Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest. You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks? Yes, sir. But you couldn't execute them? No, sir. They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton? Yes, sir. The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed? I know. Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but educated . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton? I—felt sorry for her. Is that all you can say about it? Yes, sir. The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered. You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I? No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out. Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother. Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals. They had all punked out. Like him. <doc-sep></s>

The expository dialogue by Doctor Burns at the end of the story provides some insight into how this society views the tendency toward violence in its citizens and retributive criminal justice. The prevailing understanding is that adolescents (presumably adolescent men) are subjected to aggressive and violent impulses. The society seeks to provide these teens a preferred outlet for these impulses in the form of a violent act in service of the state. Typical this seems to be the execution of an undesirable member of society who is viewed as beyond redemption. This permitted brutality is thought to get it out of a teen’s system and prepare him for a life as a contributing member in the state’s military apparatus. The result of this situation is a dramatically violent society where untrained youths are recruited to act as vicious vigilantes who terrorize anyone labelled as undesirable.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence. He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll— A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck. Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this! From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption! Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we? A million miles from nobody. They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick. If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad! His voice stopped and the silence spoke. Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left. The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly. Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film. Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then food . And then some way back to Earth. Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice. <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and— Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one? Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death. Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck. That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout. Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself. Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it. Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue! Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry. Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies. Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces. Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then! He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then. I don't see no Base around. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep>A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men. This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on! Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them. Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly. Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting: Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you! Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake! Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up. Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet! Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish, you forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget. Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty. The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with your gun.... I haven't got one. We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me— And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock. His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside! Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring. Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals? Click started running. He switched off his sending audio, kept his receiving on. Marnagan, weaponless. One guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice: I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance! The guard laughed. <doc-sep>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep>Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century. Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey? There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you? That's a silly question. You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear? Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula.... An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza. Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters. He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back. He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat. Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said: Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five. Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed. Both. The other guy went after the Patrol. Impossible! I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther. A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard. The Patrol was coming! Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered! Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing. Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography! Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here! <doc-sep>One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do? Fine, Irish. Fine! So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza. Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories! Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click? I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily. Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes? You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look— Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me! Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am. <doc-sep>Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair. All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo.... Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again. Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway? Ready. Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists. The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself. What a sweet fade-out this was! <doc-sep></s>

“Click” Hathaway, a photographer, is on a spaceship with “Irish” Marnagan, the ship’s pilot, as the ship is hit by a meteor and crashesAfter the crash, Hathaway jokes about getting a shot of Marnagan emerging from the wreckage, which Marnagan takes offense to, pointing out he could have been dead; Hathaway says he took it for granted that Marnagan would survive. Marnagan states that they could walk the entire diameter of the planet they are on in four hours, but Hathaway points out that he has only an hour of oxygen. Hathaway states that he has photo evidence that the meteor that hit their ship was thrown at them, probably by Gunther, the person Marnagan is trying to capture, but Marnagan redirects their priorities to oxygen, food, and a way back to earth.As they walk in search of help, they notice that there is human-made gravity on the planet. Immediately after making that discovery, they encounter an enormous herd of dangerous beasts. When Marnagan discovers his gun is ineffective as a weapon, they flee to a nearby cave for protection, as the cave is too small for the beasts to enter.Marnagan asks Hathaway to take a picture of him with the beasts. Hathaway snaps several pictures of Marnagan posing at a safe distance. Hathaway then says that between the “natural” meteors, gravity, and beasts, their crash will look accidental rather than like murder. He shows Marnagan the pictures he shot, intending to use the beasts as part of his argument, but Marnagan protests that his film is “lousy” as only Marnagan, appears in the shots and not the beasts. When Hathaway confirms this is so, he is insistent that the film cannot lie. If the beasts do not appear in the photos, they don’t exist.When they emerge from the cave and the animals are gone, the men are at first elated. Hathaway quickly realizes, though, that with their oxygen running low and limiting the time they have to find Gunther’s base and fresh oxygen, they must get the beasts to return so that they can follow the beasts to their source--Gunther’s base.The men concentrate on the beasts and the beasts reappear; Hathaway and Marnagan locate a source point and head toward it. Marnagan believes he is being attacked by a beast, but when Hathaway reminds him the monsters are fake, Marnagan is able to resist the telepathic message. Marnagan enters the cave where it appears the animals are coming from and finds an air-lock door and a tunnel before he is captured by a guard. He tells the guard his partner is dead.Hathaway creeps in through the air-lock door to see Marnagan held at gunpoint. Hathaway fools the guard into believing he is armed, takes his gun, and gets the guard to guide him and Marnagan to oxygen. They then use photos of Marnagan, inserted in the telepath machines, to take over Gunther’s fortress and capture him. The story ends with Hathaway taking a triumphant posed picture of Marnagan.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence. He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll— A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck. Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this! From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption! Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we? A million miles from nobody. They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick. If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad! His voice stopped and the silence spoke. Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left. The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly. Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film. Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then food . And then some way back to Earth. Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice. <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and— Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one? Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death. Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck. That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout. Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself. Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it. Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue! Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry. Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies. Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces. Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then! He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then. I don't see no Base around. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep>A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men. This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on! Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them. Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly. Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting: Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you! Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake! Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up. Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet! Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish, you forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget. Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty. The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with your gun.... I haven't got one. We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me— And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock. His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside! Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring. Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals? Click started running. He switched off his sending audio, kept his receiving on. Marnagan, weaponless. One guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice: I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance! The guard laughed. <doc-sep>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep>Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century. Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey? There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you? That's a silly question. You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear? Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula.... An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza. Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters. He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back. He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat. Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said: Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five. Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed. Both. The other guy went after the Patrol. Impossible! I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther. A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard. The Patrol was coming! Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered! Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing. Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography! Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here! <doc-sep>One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do? Fine, Irish. Fine! So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza. Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories! Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click? I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily. Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes? You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look— Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me! Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am. <doc-sep>Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair. All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo.... Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again. Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway? Ready. Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists. The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself. What a sweet fade-out this was! <doc-sep></s>

Hathaway’s photography is the reason he is initially selected to go along on the mission to capture the outlaw Gunther. Unlike the character Marnagan, who is repeatedly described as physically very large and strong, Hathaway is not on the mission for his physical prowess, but is there to document Marnagan’s capture of Gunther for training of Junior Patrolmen in the future Hathaway has also invented self-developing film which seems like a cross between Polaroid pictures and a digital camera, as it has to be put into a micro-viewer at the camera’s base to be seen. This film allows Hathaway and Marnagan, the active partner on the mission, to view Hathaway’s pictures immediately and notice the absence of beasts from Hathaway’s pictures. This allows for the revelation that the beasts are telepathic projections into the men’s minds and sets up the final “battle” in the story, in which telepathic projections of Marnagan, created by the same projectors that created the beasts, along with photos from Hathaway’s film, defeat Gunther’s guards and enable Hathaway and Marnagan to capture Gunther. While nothing could have been accomplished without Marnagan, Hathaway’s photography is essential to the successful completion of the mission.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence. He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll— A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck. Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this! From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption! Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we? A million miles from nobody. They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick. If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad! His voice stopped and the silence spoke. Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left. The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly. Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film. Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then food . And then some way back to Earth. Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice. <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and— Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one? Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death. Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck. That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout. Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself. Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it. Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue! Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry. Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies. Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces. Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then! He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then. I don't see no Base around. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep>A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men. This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on! Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them. Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly. Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting: Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you! Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake! Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up. Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet! Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish, you forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget. Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty. The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with your gun.... I haven't got one. We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me— And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock. His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside! Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring. Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals? Click started running. He switched off his sending audio, kept his receiving on. Marnagan, weaponless. One guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice: I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance! The guard laughed. <doc-sep>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep>Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century. Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey? There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you? That's a silly question. You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear? Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula.... An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza. Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters. He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back. He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat. Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said: Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five. Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed. Both. The other guy went after the Patrol. Impossible! I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther. A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard. The Patrol was coming! Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered! Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing. Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography! Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here! <doc-sep>One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do? Fine, Irish. Fine! So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza. Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories! Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click? I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily. Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes? You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look— Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me! Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am. <doc-sep>Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair. All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo.... Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again. Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway? Ready. Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists. The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself. What a sweet fade-out this was! <doc-sep></s>

Despite their clear differences, Hathaway and Marnagan are a solid team who work well together and depend on each other. We first see this in the opening scene of the story where Hathaway is physically clinging to Marnagan in his distress during the crash sequence. After the crash, Hathaway is more concerned with taking photos of Marnagan emerging from the crash than helping him emerge from the rubble, not because he doesn’t care about his companion, but because he sees his companion as so strong, it doesn’t occur to him to be concerned for his physical safety. This points to one of their key differences--while Marnagan is immediately concerned for Hathaway’s safety and assumes Hathaway would reciprocate, Hathaway sees Marnagan as much stronger than himself, nearly invulnerable.We see Hathaway and Marnagan’s collaborative relationship continue when they are faced with the beasts. They are both afraid; Hathaway is the first to spot the secure hiding place of the cave and hails Marnagan to run there. Marnagan then proposes that he pose “with” the beasts--standing at a safe distance with them in the background--and Hathaway agrees. They continue to argue about what to do while Hathaway develops the film as part of his argument. When Hathaway presents the developed film as evidence, Marnagan teases him about his invention being “lousy”, as only he (Marnagan) shows in the photos, but the monsters do not. This joke sets up Hathaway’s realization that the beasts are telepathic projections rather than physical beings, leading the men to debate which of them will lead the hunt for oxygen. While Hathaway knows his partner is physically stronger and he is already suffering from oxygen deprivation, he doesn’t want to risk Marnagan’s safety if his deduction proves wrong. Marnagan, however, shows his trust in Hathaway by insisting that he (Marnagan) lead, confident that if Hathaway says the monsters aren’t there, they are indeed not.When Marnagan briefly succumbs to the telepathic illusion of the beasts, Hathaway is able to talk him down. Just by listening to Hathaway’s words, Marnagan is able to convince himself again that the beasts are not real. Marnagan then convinces the guard he encounters that Hathaway died in the ship crash, allowing Hathaway to sneak in, capture the guard, and get both the men oxygen. They use their teamwork in a last instance to defeat the principal antagonist of the story, Gunther. Hathaway is captured by more of Gunther’s guards and taken to him, but is already prepared. He shows Gunther that Gunther’s men are being overwhelmed and defeated by five hundred armed Patrol men, causing Gunther to pull out a weapon and fire wildly until Hathaway knocks him unconscious. We then are told that the “five hundred Patrol men” are telepathic illusions of Marnagan projected by the same projectors that created the images of the beasts, supplied with photos of Marnagan shot by Hathaway. Once again their teamwork proves crucial to the success of the mission.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence. He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll— A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck. Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this! From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption! Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we? A million miles from nobody. They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick. If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad! His voice stopped and the silence spoke. Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left. The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly. Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film. Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then food . And then some way back to Earth. Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice. <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and— Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one? Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death. Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck. That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout. Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself. Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it. Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue! Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry. Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies. Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces. Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then! He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then. I don't see no Base around. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep>A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men. This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on! Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them. Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly. Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting: Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you! Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake! Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up. Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet! Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish, you forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget. Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty. The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with your gun.... I haven't got one. We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me— And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock. His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside! Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring. Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals? Click started running. He switched off his sending audio, kept his receiving on. Marnagan, weaponless. One guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice: I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance! The guard laughed. <doc-sep>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep>Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century. Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey? There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you? That's a silly question. You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear? Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula.... An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza. Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters. He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back. He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat. Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said: Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five. Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed. Both. The other guy went after the Patrol. Impossible! I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther. A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard. The Patrol was coming! Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered! Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing. Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography! Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here! <doc-sep>One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do? Fine, Irish. Fine! So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza. Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories! Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click? I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily. Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes? You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look— Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me! Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am. <doc-sep>Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair. All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo.... Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again. Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway? Ready. Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists. The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself. What a sweet fade-out this was! <doc-sep></s>

The crash of Hathaway and Marnagan’s ship is the precipitating event for the events that follow, but it is also more than that. Hathaway states shortly after the crash that the meteor that hit their ship was deliberately aimed at them with force, based on it being “hot and glowing” at the time of the collision. Hathaway hypothesizes at that time that Gunther, the man Marnagan is trying to capture on their mission, had engineered the crash. A short time later, when walking along the surface of the planet, Hathaway notices sudden weight loss. After he and Marnagan test it and confirm that it really happened, they conclude that their ship was not only hit by a meteor, it was dragged down to the planet by an unnatural amount of gravity, more than the planet is generating. They then meet horrifying, dangerous monsters, but these are revealed in short order to be telepathic projections. They are able to dispel the images of the monsters by their own belief that the monsters are not really there, then summon them back by imagining that they are there, but that the monsters cannot harm them. In this way, the monsters lead them to Gunther, who is captured when Marnagan and Hathaway use the telepathic projectors that generated the “monster” images to generate hundreds of images of Marnagan, making it appear that there is an army ready to take over Gunther’s base and capture or kill all his men. All of this flows from the initial crash engineered by Gunther with the propelled meteor and the area of super-gravity that pulled the ship down to the planet. Gunther hoped to make the ship disappear and Marnagan and Hathaway along with it. Instead, they crashed on the single planet where they could find him and had to take on an immediate quest to search for him in order to survive, as they had limited oxygen and needed to find the only other humans on the planet in order to replenish their supply.

<s> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep>Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence. He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll— A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck. Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this! From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption! Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we? A million miles from nobody. They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick. If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad! His voice stopped and the silence spoke. Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left. The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death...? Sixty minutes. They stood and looked at one another. Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly. Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film. Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then food . And then some way back to Earth. Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice. <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep>They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and— Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one? Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death. Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck. That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout. Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself. Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it. Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue! Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry. Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies. Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals. Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts. When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him: Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces. Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then! He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then. I don't see no Base around. <doc-sep>Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff. Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look. Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented. Huh? It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete. What! Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith nothing ; Marnagan shooting his gun at nothing ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of nothing . Then, closeup—of—NOTHING! The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe— Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here— He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there. Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave— If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click. Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film? Nuts! Any color we see, the camera sees. We've been fooled. Hey, where you going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him. Get out of the way, said Hathaway. Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going. I can't let you do that, Irish. Why not? You'd be going on my say-so. Ain't your say-so good enough for me? Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess— If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den. Irish, I— Shut up and load up. Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it. Ready, Click? I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals— Keep me in focus, lad. All the way, Irish. What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera! Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking. Right out into the middle of them.... <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep>A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men. This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on! Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them. Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly. Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting: Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you! Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake! Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up. Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet! Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish, you forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget. Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty. The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily. We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then, you show up with your gun.... I haven't got one. We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me— And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock. His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside! Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring. Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast. All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards. Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed. The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals? Click started running. He switched off his sending audio, kept his receiving on. Marnagan, weaponless. One guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice: I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance! The guard laughed. <doc-sep>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep>Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century. Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey? There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you? That's a silly question. You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear? Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula.... An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza. Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters. He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back. He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat. Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said: Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five. Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed. Both. The other guy went after the Patrol. Impossible! I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther. A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard. The Patrol was coming! Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands. Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered! Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing. Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state. Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography! Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window. The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here! <doc-sep>One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do? Fine, Irish. Fine! So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza. Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories! Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click? I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily. Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes? You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look— Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me! Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am. <doc-sep>Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair. All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo.... Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again. Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway? Ready. Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists. The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself. What a sweet fade-out this was! <doc-sep></s>

Telepathy plays an interesting role in this story. Rather than telepathy being used by one character to discern the thoughts of another character, as is often the case, we instead have machines creating telepathic projections. It is fitting, then, that since machines are creating the telepathic projections, a machine can also defeat them. The camera does not "see" through interpreting images or trying to understand them. It only records light and shadow. For this reason, it remains unaffected by telepathy--it can only record what is there, not what is projected into the mind.Hathaway and Marnagan become trapped in a small cave by what they believe are dangerous wild beasts. Marnagan asks Hathaway to take his pictures as Marnagan poses against the backdrop of the beasts. When Marnagan looks at the photos and complains that the beasts do not appear, Hathaway realizes that the beasts are not physically real, but only telepathic projections in the men's minds. He and Marnagan are then able to dismiss the beasts and bring them back at will in order to let the projections lead them to their source.Telepathy plays a significant role again when Hathaway and Marnagan formulate a plan to capture Gunther, the person Marnagan is on a mission to capture and the man that caused their crash. While the two of them could easily overpower Gunther if he were alone, there are at least fifty guards with him at his base. Hathaway realizes they can photograph Marnagan in poses as though he's taking over the base and use those images in the telepathic projector against the guards and Gunther. The telepathic projector turns one Marnagan into five hundred, allowing the two men to easily capture the base and Gunther while the guards flee. The guards are likely aware of the telepathic projectors, but do not suspect that Hathaway and Marnagan have managed to turn the projectors to their own ends. By using the projectors, Hathaway and Marnagan are able to turn a very dangerous situation into an easy victory.

<s> Doctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder. Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady! A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years. Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up. The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth.... Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you werewriting? Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places. She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. What happened to Guns for Ganymede ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it? <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette. It wasn't Guns , it was Pistols ; and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto . I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair. What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster. Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet. I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the Satellite . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is. In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row. Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings. That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet. The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. My last book, Death In The Atom , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn.... Who? I interrupted. An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty. The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly. I shook my head. Some new kind of ... It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The Alpha rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the Gamma rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of Beta or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons. When any form of life is exposed to these Gamma rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug. I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life. The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed. Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames! If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what? So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth. I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action. Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think. I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe? She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that? I shrugged. The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in. The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in. And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it en masse . If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger. Let's get out of here, I said, getting up. Zinnng-whack! All right! On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly. A heat ray! Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud. An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. <doc-sep>Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton. We had traveled this far by ganet , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy jagua canoes. It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City. We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship. Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control. Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel? Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything. And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins. From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Stand still! The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft. Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me. In heaven's name, what was it? Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose. Then that would mean...? That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest. <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful. Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to. What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you? Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot. What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe? Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy. Dangerous? Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh. Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face. That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know. Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it. Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest. It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away. <doc-sep>Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened arelium steel,half buried in the swamp soil. What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled. A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators. Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble. But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship. A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door. Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly. The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro. Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process. Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact. You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible. In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate. But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass. Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove. <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance. Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ... His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically. And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening. ... the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal. A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe. She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word. I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair. Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already. They're laughing at her book! And look, the old lady's gettin' sore. Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness. The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her. Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it. I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can. <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance. All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her. But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE. Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction? She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile. Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial? I shook my head. Not me, I said. But I knew I would. <doc-sep></s>

Grannie Annie, a prolific science fiction novelist, goes to see Billy at a men’s club. The two sit down to have a drink in an empty portion of the club, but they only have a minute to chat before Grannie Annie remembers she has an appointment at the Satellite Theater. She insists that Billy come with her. Grannie Annie forces Billy to take a seat in the audience, and she takes her place backstage. The show is called “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses,” and it’s a type of gameshow. People and creatures on nine different planets tune into the program, and they ask the geniuses questions. If the show’s experts cannot answer the question, the listener gets a sum of money. Grannie Annie is there to serve as the guest star. The show goes off without a hitch. The only remarkable thing that Billy notices is that the audience appears to be mesmerized by Dr. Universe. Grannie Annie tells Billy that while she was writing a sequel to her latest novel, she met Ezra Karn, and he told her about the Green Flames. The Green Flame is a radioactive rock originally found on Mercury, and the rock’s Gamma Rays have the power to make people and creatures have a strong desire for a leader. Grannie Annie included these fantastical ideas in her recent novel, but her manuscript was stolen. Now, she’s concerned that the rocks and rays will be used by an authoritarian leader. In the middle of their conversation, Grannie Annie and Billy are attacked by someone with a heat ray. The pair leaves Swamp City, followed by the enemy. They travel and find Ezra Karn in his home. Karn takes his friends to the spaceship where the Green Flames are stored. The precious resource is behind impenetrable glass, and it’s clear that whoever controls it made sure it was safe. Karn is an avid Doctor Universe fan, and he off-handedly tells Grannie Annie and Billy that they ought to make the man the king. Grannie Annie realizes that Doctor Universe is in fact the person hoarding the Green Flames, and he’s using his quiz show to control the minds of the masses so that he can take over as dictator. Without warning, Billy and his friends feel an invisible force pushing them and holding down their bodies. They recognize force as the Varsoom, and the only way to stop it is to make them laugh. Grannie Annie builds a machine that allows the group to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast. When Doctor Universe comes on the radio again, Grannie Annie reads one of her science fiction books to the invisible creatures. The plan works, and the Varsoom laugh wildly, which ruins the Doctor’s plans to take over the universe. Grannie Annie says it won’t deter her from writing her novels, and she invites Billy to come along for the research portion of her next project.

<s> Doctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder. Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady! A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years. Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up. The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth.... Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you werewriting? Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places. She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. What happened to Guns for Ganymede ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it? <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette. It wasn't Guns , it was Pistols ; and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto . I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair. What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster. Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet. I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the Satellite . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is. In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row. Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings. That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet. The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. My last book, Death In The Atom , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn.... Who? I interrupted. An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty. The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly. I shook my head. Some new kind of ... It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The Alpha rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the Gamma rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of Beta or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons. When any form of life is exposed to these Gamma rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug. I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life. The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed. Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames! If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what? So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth. I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action. Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think. I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe? She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that? I shrugged. The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in. The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in. And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it en masse . If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger. Let's get out of here, I said, getting up. Zinnng-whack! All right! On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly. A heat ray! Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud. An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. <doc-sep>Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton. We had traveled this far by ganet , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy jagua canoes. It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City. We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship. Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control. Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel? Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything. And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins. From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Stand still! The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft. Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me. In heaven's name, what was it? Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose. Then that would mean...? That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest. <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful. Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to. What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you? Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot. What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe? Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy. Dangerous? Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh. Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face. That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know. Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it. Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest. It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away. <doc-sep>Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened arelium steel,half buried in the swamp soil. What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled. A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators. Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble. But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship. A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door. Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly. The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro. Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process. Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact. You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible. In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate. But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass. Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove. <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance. Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ... His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically. And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening. ... the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal. A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe. She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word. I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair. Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already. They're laughing at her book! And look, the old lady's gettin' sore. Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness. The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her. Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it. I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can. <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance. All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her. But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE. Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction? She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile. Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial? I shook my head. Not me, I said. But I knew I would. <doc-sep></s>

Grannie Annie is a small elderly woman who wears a bonnet and dresses in black. She smokes tobacco and her choice of beverage is whiskey. She is a very well-known science fiction writer, and her work is highly sought after by publishers. Her pen name is Annabella C. Flowers. Her writing includes some repetition. Each novel includes a beautiful woman for the protagonist to fall in love with. Still, Grannie Annie always does her research. If she’s writing about a colony on Venus, she spends weeks there to truly get to know the place before she portrays the setting in her book. Grannie Annie is bold and intelligent. Although she does not first suspect that Doctor Universe is the wannabe dictator, as soon as Karn mentions that he thinks the Doctor should be king, everything clicks, and Annie recognizes him as the villain. She is a quick thinker and a tinkerer as well. She is able to build a contraption that interrupts Doctor Universe’s broadcast in very little time. When the Varsoom laugh at her novel, she gets angry. She clearly takes pride in her work and doesn’t like feeling like a laughingstock. Annie is not a quitter. When Billy asks her if she will continue writing, she already has the idea for her next piece ready to go.

<s> Doctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder. Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady! A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years. Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up. The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth.... Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you werewriting? Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places. She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. What happened to Guns for Ganymede ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it? <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette. It wasn't Guns , it was Pistols ; and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto . I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair. What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster. Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet. I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the Satellite . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is. In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row. Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings. That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet. The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. My last book, Death In The Atom , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn.... Who? I interrupted. An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty. The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly. I shook my head. Some new kind of ... It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The Alpha rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the Gamma rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of Beta or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons. When any form of life is exposed to these Gamma rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug. I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life. The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed. Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames! If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what? So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth. I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action. Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think. I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe? She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that? I shrugged. The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in. The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in. And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it en masse . If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger. Let's get out of here, I said, getting up. Zinnng-whack! All right! On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly. A heat ray! Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud. An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. <doc-sep>Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton. We had traveled this far by ganet , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy jagua canoes. It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City. We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship. Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control. Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel? Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything. And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins. From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Stand still! The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft. Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me. In heaven's name, what was it? Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose. Then that would mean...? That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest. <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful. Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to. What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you? Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot. What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe? Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy. Dangerous? Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh. Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face. That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know. Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it. Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest. It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away. <doc-sep>Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened arelium steel,half buried in the swamp soil. What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled. A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators. Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble. But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship. A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door. Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly. The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro. Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process. Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact. You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible. In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate. But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass. Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove. <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance. Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ... His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically. And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening. ... the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal. A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe. She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word. I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair. Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already. They're laughing at her book! And look, the old lady's gettin' sore. Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness. The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her. Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it. I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can. <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance. All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her. But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE. Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction? She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile. Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial? I shook my head. Not me, I said. But I knew I would. <doc-sep></s>

The Green Flames are highly important to the narrative because without them, Doctor Universe would not be able to try and take over the universe. The Green Flames originally come from planet Mercury. When earthlings or other creatures come in contract with the rock’s Gamma rays, their brains instantly desire control from leadership. The element’s power is immense but also subtle. The Green Flames have already been used to institute a dictatorship, as with the cautionary tail of Vennox. Vennox forced each creature to keep two of the rocks in each house, and he used their powers to make them servile. When the government was overthrown, the Green Flames were destroyed. Ezra Karn finds the Green Flames hidden away in a spaceship in the Varsoom district of Venus. Doctor Universe has secured the resource and its power when he broadcasts his weekly quiz show, “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses.” The show is a hit on multiple planets, and the quiz master urges his followers to tune in to each broadcast. The Green Flames lead listeners to believe that he is a supreme being and deserves to be in a position of power.

<s> Doctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder. Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady! A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years. Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up. The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth.... Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you werewriting? Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places. She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. What happened to Guns for Ganymede ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it? <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette. It wasn't Guns , it was Pistols ; and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto . I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair. What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster. Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet. I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the Satellite . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is. In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row. Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings. That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet. The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. My last book, Death In The Atom , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn.... Who? I interrupted. An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty. The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly. I shook my head. Some new kind of ... It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The Alpha rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the Gamma rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of Beta or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons. When any form of life is exposed to these Gamma rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug. I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life. The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed. Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames! If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what? So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth. I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action. Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think. I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe? She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that? I shrugged. The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in. The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in. And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it en masse . If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger. Let's get out of here, I said, getting up. Zinnng-whack! All right! On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly. A heat ray! Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud. An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. <doc-sep>Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton. We had traveled this far by ganet , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy jagua canoes. It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City. We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship. Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control. Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel? Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything. And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins. From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Stand still! The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft. Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me. In heaven's name, what was it? Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose. Then that would mean...? That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest. <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful. Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to. What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you? Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot. What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe? Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy. Dangerous? Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh. Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face. That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know. Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it. Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest. It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away. <doc-sep>Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened arelium steel,half buried in the swamp soil. What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled. A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators. Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble. But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship. A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door. Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly. The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro. Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process. Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact. You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible. In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate. But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass. Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove. <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance. Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ... His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically. And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening. ... the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal. A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe. She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word. I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair. Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already. They're laughing at her book! And look, the old lady's gettin' sore. Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness. The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her. Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it. I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can. <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance. All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her. But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE. Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction? She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile. Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial? I shook my head. Not me, I said. But I knew I would. <doc-sep></s>

When Grannie Annie shows up at the men’s club to see Billy, the two friends have not seen each other in two years. It is immediately clear that Grannie Annie runs the show in their relationship, in part because Billy is willing to risk his reputation at the men’s club in order to make his elderly friends happy. Within minutes, Billy is whisked away to the theater to watch Annie guest star on Doctor Universe’s show, even though she does not explain the plan to him and he has little interest in being an audience member.Although the rest of the world knows Grannie Annie as Annabella C. Flowers, the name she uses to publish her science fiction novels, Billy would never address her so formally. There is an obvious feeling of trust between the two characters. When Grannie Annie gets her novel stolen and worries that there’s a dictator about to take over the universe, she finds Billy to help her solve the case. Similarly, when Grannie Annie spills her guts about her far-fetched theory about her novel inspiring an evil villain to use the Green Flames to control millions of beings, Billy believes her right off the bat. The pair get along very well, and it’s clear that’s the case when Grannie Annie asks Billy to accompany her on her next trip to research her upcoming novel. Billy simply can’t say no to his friend, whom he deeply admires.

<s> Doctor Universe By CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers, had stumbled onto a murderous plot more hair-raising than any she had ever concocted. And the danger from the villain of the piece didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the Spacemen's Club in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder. Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady! A woman here...! The Spacemen's was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced. I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously. Grannie Annie! There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance. I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years. Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up. The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth.... Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour. In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions: What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the Spacemen's ? What happened to the book you werewriting? Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places. She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive. But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount. One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto. She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known. What happened to Guns for Ganymede ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it? <doc-sep>Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette. It wasn't Guns , it was Pistols ; and it wasn't Ganymede , it was Pluto . I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair. What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster. Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet. I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me. Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the Satellite . They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck, zilcon wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is. In front was a big sign. It read: ONE NIGHT ONLY DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS NINE GENIUSES THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF THE SYSTEM As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row. Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings. That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet. The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator. <doc-sep>A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights. People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts. There was a roar of applause from the Satellite audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued: As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand planetoles . One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers. From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais. The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater: Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury? Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly: Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car. And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner. It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things. The audience in the Satellite seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete. Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction. When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred. A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era. Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth. Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets. Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted. In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes. Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted? I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down. The I.P. men aren't strong enough. She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips. What do you mean? <doc-sep>For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming. My last book, Death In The Atom , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn.... Who? I interrupted. An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty. The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly. I shook my head. Some new kind of ... It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The Alpha rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the Gamma rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of Beta or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons. When any form of life is exposed to these Gamma rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug. I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word. Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life. The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed. Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor. To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames! If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what? So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble. Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth. I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action. Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think. I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe? She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that? I shrugged. The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in. The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in. And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it en masse . If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger. Let's get out of here, I said, getting up. Zinnng-whack! All right! On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly. A heat ray! Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud. An instant later we were plunging through the dark night. <doc-sep>Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton. We had traveled this far by ganet , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy jagua canoes. It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City. We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship. Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control. Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel? Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything. And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins. From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning: Stand still! The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft. Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed. I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me. In heaven's name, what was it? Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose. Then that would mean...? That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest. <doc-sep>The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds. At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn. He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in varpa cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat. Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut. The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely. Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful. Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to. What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you? Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot. What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe? Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy. Dangerous? Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh. Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face. That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know. Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned. The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it. Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest. It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away. <doc-sep>Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened arelium steel,half buried in the swamp soil. What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled. A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators. Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble. But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship. A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door. Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly. The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro. Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process. Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact. You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible. In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate. But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass. Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove. <doc-sep>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement. Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up. As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying: Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in. With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians. Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry! She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work. Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall. Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus. At length she finished. It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom! You're going to what? Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque. How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn. We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly. I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program. Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice. For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly. I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from MurderOn A Space Liner . <doc-sep>It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance. Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ... His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically. And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening. ... the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal. A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe. She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word. I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair. Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already. They're laughing at her book! And look, the old lady's gettin' sore. Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness. The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her. Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it. I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can. <doc-sep>It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance. All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her. But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE. Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction? She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile. Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial? I shook my head. Not me, I said. But I knew I would. <doc-sep></s>

Grannie Annie first meets Ezra Karn when she goes to Venus City to research the setting for her novel. Ezra Karn is a prospector who lives in a deep marsh in Varsoom country. Grannie Annie learns that the Green Flames were not all destroyed after the last dictatorship when he tells her that he stumbled upon the resource in an abandoned spaceship. Grannie Annie and Billy find Karn at his hut in the marsh. They ask Karn to take them to the Green Flames, and after some hesitation, he agrees. He knows that the only way to defeat the Varsoom is to make them laugh, but he does not know what exactly they think is funny. He is a huge fan of Doctor Universe, and he never misses a show. Ezra Karn successfully takes Grannie Annie and Billy to the spaceship he previously found. Within moments of laying eyes on it, Karl yells out in pain. He rolls around on the ground, trying to stand but failing. He informs his companions that the force he is dealing with is the Varsoom, and the only way to end the madness is to make them laugh. When it’s time to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast to stop him from taking over the universe, it is Karn’s idea to have Grannie Annie read her book to the Varsoom. He does not realize that they will find it funny, but he does think it’s a good way to get the invisible creatures’ attention. He essentially saves everyone, since Grannie Annie’s book makes the Varsoom laugh and laugh and make it impossible for Doctor Universe to control the minds of the masses.

<s> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower. O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy. I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm. Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing! Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would! O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her. If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know. The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk. Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention! Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman. She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not? Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am. Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am! Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage! Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow. Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency? May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do. The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat. Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency. My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence. No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory. No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite. <doc-sep>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things! Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew! She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago. Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible! Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government. What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear? No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries! Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more. But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work! Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement. More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely! Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it! I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant. What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this! Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel. Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature! Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding. Nonsense! You're only my wife! And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women. Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so! Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards! Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now. Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it! <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

O’Rielly is an apprentice maintaining Burner Four during his first flight on a spaceship traveling between Venus and Earth. The story begins when his supervisor, Burner Chief Callahan, alerts O’Rielly that one of the controls on his burner has slipped, so he sets about resetting the controls to prevent the ship from crashing when it starts its descent toward Earth. He searches his watch room and around the burner looking for a mouse or anyone who might have moved the control. He thinks about Captain Millicent Hatwoody, the ship’s commander nicknamed “Old Woman”, and worries she will exile him to a distant moon if she discovers the issue. During his search, he discovers a stowaway Venusian woman named Trillium on his bunk bed, and she tells him she had moved the control in order to escape the burner room where she was hiding. O’Rielly is struck by her beauty and allows her to shower in his bathroom. While she is showering, Callahan to interrogate O’Rielly and instructs him to take a shower because Captain Hatwoody is bringing a guest to tour the facilities. He reminds O’Rielly of the history of the Earth women’s supremacy over men, which began as a response to the Earth men’s infatuation with Venusian women. When they established dominance, the Earth women returned the Venusian women to their planet. Consequently, the Venusian men warned of war if any Earth men attempted to contact Venusian women. For their part, Venusian women would be killed if they tried to leave. To soften the threat, Venus agreed to let Earth purchase products at a lower cost. O’Rielly reminds Callahan that no Earth man has seen a Venusian woman in 125 years, and Callahan tells the story—an Earth man disguised himself as a Venusian in order to visit his love, a Venusian woman named Berta. When Trillium returns, she reveals that she is Berta’s granddaughter. She hides again before Captain Hatwoody arrives. The captain and her guest, a Venusian ambassador named Dimdooly, investigate the burner, and their interactions reveal conflicting attitudes towards gender superiority on Earth versus Venus. As they leave, Trillium reveals herself, and Dimdooly recognizes her as the Venusian president’s granddaughter. Captain Hatwoody then calls the presidents of both planets, who begin to blame each other and threaten war. Trillium explains that it was Berta, the president’s wife, who taught her how to stowaway, as she had done so herself 125 years prior. She reveals her purpose for stowing away was to draw attention to her revolutionary vision—to convince Earth to stop purchasing products from Venus, thus stopping their cash flow to fund wars. She explains the wars distract Venusian men, and that is why the women are attracted to Earth men. While the president balks, his wife orders him to step aside as she has been elected new President of Venus, and the Venusian women are taking over. Trillium is rewarded with Dimdooly’s ambassadorship, and Callahan and O’Rielly are sent back to work.

<s> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower. O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy. I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm. Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing! Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would! O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her. If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know. The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk. Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention! Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman. She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not? Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am. Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am! Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage! Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow. Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency? May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do. The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat. Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency. My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence. No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory. No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite. <doc-sep>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things! Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew! She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago. Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible! Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government. What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear? No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries! Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more. But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work! Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement. More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely! Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it! I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant. What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this! Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel. Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature! Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding. Nonsense! You're only my wife! And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women. Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so! Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards! Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now. Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it! <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on a spaceship that shuttles between Earth and Venus. The ship is commanded by Captain Hatwoody, a stern woman who represents the matriarchy that has taken over Earth. The majority of the story’s narrative happens in Apprentice Burnerman O’Rielly’s watch room. This is a simple room equipped with a bunk bed and bathing facilities, which includes a shower. From this room, he is able to maintain careful stewardship of Burner Four, which helps power the ship. When Callahan notifies O’Rielly that one of his controls has slipped, O’Rielly investigates the burner to find the culprit of the situation. After he discovers Trillium, she uses his bathing facilities to wash herself of the stink from the burner room where she was stowing away. After Callahan enters the watch room and learns of Trillium’s presence, he encourages her to hide again because of Captain Hatwoody’s impending visit. She hides beneath O’Rielly’s bunk. After Captain Hatwoody and her guest, Ambassador Dimdooly, stumble upon Trillium, the captain demands that they all follow her to her office. In her office, she convenes a conference with the presidents of Earth and Venus. After Berta—Trillium’s grandmother, the wife of the current Venusian president, and Callahan’s former love interest—reveals herself as the new ruler of Venus, O’Rielly and Callahan are given a five-minute break and sent back to their former duties managing the burners below.

<s> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower. O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy. I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm. Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing! Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would! O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her. If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know. The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk. Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention! Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman. She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not? Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am. Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am! Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage! Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow. Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency? May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do. The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat. Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency. My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence. No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory. No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite. <doc-sep>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things! Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew! She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago. Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible! Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government. What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear? No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries! Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more. But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work! Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement. More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely! Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it! I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant. What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this! Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel. Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature! Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding. Nonsense! You're only my wife! And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women. Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so! Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards! Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now. Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it! <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

Callahan is Burner Chief on the ship and has been flying as a professional Burnerman for 125 years. Berta is the first lady of Venus, and the grandmother of Trillium. When O’Rielly is trying to hide Trillium in his shower, Callahan tells the story of when women first took control of Earth: They were not pleased that Earth men were so entranced by Venusian women, and so they took over leadership of the planet and sent all Venusian women back to their own planet. Likewise, Venusian men banned Earth men from interacting with Venusian women under threat of war. This led to an agreement where Earth and Venus could conduct trade together for cheaper prices. Callahan suggests that he was the last man to touch a Venusian woman, and he did so by hiding himself inside a large bag and sneaking through customs disguised as a Venusian man with a long, fake beard. The woman he was sneaking in to see turned out to be Berta, and Callahan says she ultimately rejected him because she could tell his beard was fake, and Venusian women loved to be tickled by real beards.

<s> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower. O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy. I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm. Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing! Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would! O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her. If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know. The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk. Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention! Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman. She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not? Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am. Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am! Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage! Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow. Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency? May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do. The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat. Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency. My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence. No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory. No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite. <doc-sep>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things! Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew! She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago. Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible! Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government. What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear? No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries! Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more. But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work! Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement. More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely! Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it! I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant. What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this! Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel. Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature! Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding. Nonsense! You're only my wife! And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women. Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so! Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards! Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now. Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it! <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

Trillium is the granddaughter of the President of Venus and his wife, Berta. One-hundred twenty-five years ago, Berta learned from Callahan’s example how to stowaway and break the rules devised between the two planets. She taught her granddaughter how to do the same, so Trillium took this knowledge to implement her own plan. Trillium represents the women of Venus, who are tired of the lack of attention they receive from Venusian men; the men are far more interested in war and harbor misogynistic attitudes towards women. Likewise, the women rulers of Earth treat men as their inferiors as a result of their lust for Venusian women. When Trillium is discovered, this triggers a meeting between the two presidents of Earth and Venus, and the president of Earth announces that her presence on the ship signifies a breach in their rules. Therefore, the special arrangement between the two planets is ended, and Earth no longer recognizes Dimdooly’s ambassadorship. As the Venusian president resists, he also learns that his wife Berta has been elected the new President of Venus, and that women will now take over just as they did on Earth. She orders her husband to be taken away. After Dimdooly loses his position, he announces his love for Trillium, which confirms her plan to regain the amorous attentions of Venusian men has worked. As a reward for her role in the revolution, Trillium receives Dimdooly’s ambassadorship.

<s> IMAGE OF SPLENDOR By LU KELLA From Venus to Earth, and all the way between, it was a hell of a world for men ... and Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four! On my way, sir! At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone. Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly? Fusion control two points low, sir. O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off? If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir? So a control reset itself in flight, hey? I don't know yet, sir. Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth! The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud. Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four. Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way. She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am! I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control. <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower. O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy. I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm. Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing! Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would! O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her. If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know. The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk. Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention! Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman. She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not? Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am. Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am! Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage! Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow. Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency? May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do. The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat. Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency. My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence. No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory. No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite. <doc-sep>Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy. Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever. A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk. Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse. Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium! Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you? Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could. There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet. Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this! May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight! May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war! Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along! O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life. Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up. Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency. Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant. Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting. Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts. Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries. The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices. Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody. The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense? Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance. Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now! The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS. So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen. By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly. An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there! Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful. Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth! Very well. Grandmamma told me how. <doc-sep>Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things! Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew! She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago. Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible! Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government. What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear? No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries! Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more. But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work! Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement. More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely! Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it! I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant. What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this! Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel. Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature! Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding. Nonsense! You're only my wife! And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women. Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so! Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view. His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards! Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now. Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it! <doc-sep>Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience. Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power. Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history. Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory! Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience. Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials. The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta? I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew. Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest. The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations. Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose. What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary. You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go? Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess. O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma? Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all. I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.' Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not. But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever. Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears. So what? Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em! <doc-sep></s>

Captain Hatwoody is the commander of the ship that ferries between Earth and Venus. She is a stern, efficient Earth woman with a vocal disdain for men. Behind her back, the men of her crew refer to her as “the Old Woman.” Ambassador Dimdooly is a Venusian who works as the right-hand man of the President of Venus. Similar to Hatwoody’s disgust for men, Ambassador Dimdooly harbors a deep-seated misogyny. Both characters’ innate sexism is reflected in the social orders of their individual planets and are the result of over one-hundred years of conflict. Captain Hatwoody plays gracious host to Ambassador Dimdooly when he visits the ship, even referring to him as “Excellency.” However, their tensions are revealed when together they inspect Burner Four after visiting O’Rielly in his watch room. They each make snarky comments to each other about the inferiority of the others’ respective gender. Their attitudes are reflected later during the confrontational meeting between the presidents of Earth and Venus in Captain Hatwoody’s office. These two characters’ interactions are essential in highlighting the gender conflict that explodes at the story’s end when both Earth and Venusian women solidify their rule over their respective planets.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since. For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the West that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he had to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off. So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn.... Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble? Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep>Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural. Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these. He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm. Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys! Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed. I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too? Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. <doc-sep>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander. He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... <doc-sep>Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness. The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free. In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman! The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan. So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along. He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of.... And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel. He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship. He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence. He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth. He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates. He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace. He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains. <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered. The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight. A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem.... He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! <doc-sep></s>

Three aliens from the planet Ortha, Thig, Kam and their Commander, Torp, have landed on Long Island to see if Earth is viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig captures a passing man, an author named Lewis Terry, and brings him back to the spaceship, where Torp decides that Thig should impersonate Terry to learn more about Earth. Terry’s knowledge is transferred to Thig, a process that kills Terry and arms Thig with with all of his memories. He is given plastic surgery to look like Terry, and he goes to live with Terry’s family. He is greeted by Terry’s three young children and his wife, Ellen; the children’s affection and Ellen’s kiss lead to sensations that confuse but excite Thig. The story then jumps ahead 12 weeks to when they return from their vacation, Thig having experienced many new emotions and sensations and having become very attached to Terry’s family. He knows that he must report to his Orthan colleagues, but has misgivings about doing so. Upon his arrival back to the ship, he tells Torp that Earth is ideal for their purposes, and Torp commends him and says he’ll recommend that Ortha take it over and eradicate the humans. Thig suggests that they instead disarm and exile the humans, and train them in the ways of Ortha. Torp responds angrily that they don’t need to waste their time with anyone outside the Orthan “Horde”. He asks Kam to check his blood for disease. Thig realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to protect her and the earthlings and says as much to Kam, who attempts to subdue him. After a struggle over Kam’s blaster, Thig kills him. Torp sees what he has done and flies into the type of rage Orthans don’t ascribe to, bludgeoning Thig until he thinks he is dead. Thig takes a blaster from a case above him and kills Torp. He reads in the ship log that Torp has written that Earth is not viable, because it infected Thig with a disease that led to him killing Kam and made it necessary for Torp to kill him. Thig puts the ship on autopilot toward Ortha, takes one of the small auxiliary ships, and heads back to Earth. He experiences many emotions, and regrets how callous he was when he first arrived on Earth and captured Lewis Terry. He vows to live as Terry in repayment to his family, and thinks knowing that Ellen doesn’t really love him, Thig, will be his punishment while he strives to make her happy. As he heads toward Long Island, the idea for a story develops in his mind. This one is about a cowboy that visits other worlds, worlds like the ones Thig has seen. He thinks maybe he could write this, and then reminds himself to remember that he is Lewis Terry now.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since. For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the West that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he had to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off. So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn.... Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble? Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep>Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural. Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these. He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm. Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys! Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed. I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too? Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. <doc-sep>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander. He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... <doc-sep>Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness. The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free. In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman! The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan. So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along. He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of.... And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel. He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship. He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence. He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth. He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates. He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace. He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains. <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered. The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight. A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem.... He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! <doc-sep></s>

Thig is the protagonist of the story, a native of the planet Ortha. He is described as shorter than an average human man (though tall for an Orthan man), and thick-bodied with well-developed muscles, average-to-large facial features, and reddish brown eyes. At the beginning of the story, he and two other Orthans, Kam and Torp, are on a mission to find planets considered viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig kidnaps a human man, Lewis Terry, and the Orthans transfer his memories to Thig and surgically alter him to look like Terry. Thig assumes his identity and joins his family posing as Terry. He begins to feel new sensations and emotions around Terry’s wife, Ellen, and their kids, and travels with them on a three-month vacation during which he learns what it feels like to be human and to care for a family. When they return and he must make his report to the other Orthans, he truthfully reports that Earth would be ideal to take over but has second thoughts when Torp says he’ll recommend that they conquer Earth and decimate the population. When his pleas to consider just disarming and exiling the humans are met with scorn, Thig becomes angry and ultimately realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to go back to save Earth. He kills both of his Orthan colleagues and sends the ship back toward Ortha as he takes an auxiliary ship back to Long Island. Along the way, he experiences many emotions including regret for his former callousness and taking Lewis Terry away from his family. Instead of the robotic being who initially exhibited coldness and indifference at the beginning of the story, he now experiences remorse and selflessness as he decides to give Ellen and the kids the life they deserve even though he’ll always know who he is and what he has done.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since. For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the West that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he had to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off. So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn.... Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble? Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep>Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural. Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these. He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm. Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys! Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed. I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too? Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. <doc-sep>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander. He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... <doc-sep>Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness. The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free. In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman! The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan. So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along. He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of.... And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel. He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship. He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence. He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth. He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates. He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace. He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains. <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered. The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight. A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem.... He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! <doc-sep></s>

The story is set in multiple locations, including Long Island, New York, an Orthan spaceship and smaller auxiliary ship, parts of the American West, and outer space. The ship from Ortha lands on Long Island in New York, and this is where Thig captures Lewis Terry and takes him to the Orthans’ spaceship, before settling in with his family, posing as Terry. This area of Long Island is near the beach and the sound, and is described as lush and green. The Terry family lives in a small grey house that is somewhat run down. While we don’t travel out west on the Terry family vacation, we do experience bits of it in Thig’s memory, including the Grand Canyon in Arizona and unspecified desert terrain. The story then takes us back to the ship, and a small laboratory aboard the ship, and then inside a smaller ship as it heads back to Long Island.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since. For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the West that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he had to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off. So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn.... Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble? Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep>Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural. Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these. He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm. Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys! Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed. I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too? Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. <doc-sep>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander. He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... <doc-sep>Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness. The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free. In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman! The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan. So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along. He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of.... And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel. He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship. He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence. He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth. He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates. He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace. He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains. <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered. The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight. A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem.... He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! <doc-sep></s>

The society on Ortha has discarded what they consider to be primal or barbaric tendencies and customs. Their children are raised in laboratories never knowing their parents and are not shown love or affection. They are taught to value loyalty to the Orthan “Hordes” over everything, and to believe that they are entitled to anything in the universe that they desire, with no regard to those outside the Hordes. They don’t have mates or have sex, though they do walk around naked. Free thought and primal urges are discouraged, and Orthan society has attempted to filter out any behavior they consider to be barbaric in favor of a robotic, obedient populace. By contrast, Thig discovers that humans feel the full gamut of emotions, think for themselves, and feel empathy rather than the dispassionate callousness Ortha demands.

<s> QUEST OF THIG By BASIL WELLS Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation. Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens. The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans. Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets. The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha. Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself! The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger.... <doc-sep>Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since. For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the West that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he had to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off. So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn.... Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble? Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more. <doc-sep>There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed. He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig. Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets. You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so. Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman. For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory. Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything! So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads. For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet. There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly. An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home. Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach! He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart. Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory. Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat. Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon. <doc-sep>Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped. For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural. Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these. He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm. Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys! Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed. I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too? Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin. <doc-sep>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked. Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander. He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon. Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow.... <doc-sep>Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head. Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body. Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness. The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free. In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny. Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman! The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan. So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along. He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all. He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines: Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of.... And there his writing ended abruptly. Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message. Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel. He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his. Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship. He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence. He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth. He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates. He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind. He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace. He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains. <doc-sep>Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family. The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered. The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight. A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem.... He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that! <doc-sep></s>

Ellen is the wife of Lewis Terry, and she is described as slender with red hair. When Thig assumes Terry’s identity, some of the first sensations he experiences result from Ellen kissing him. On their travels throughout the American West, Thig bonds with her and with her children. He learns to understand new experiences and emotions throughout his time with Ellen, and he observes that she seems to know how he’s feeling without him telling her. When Thig ultimately realizes that he wants to go back to Earth, it is because he loves Ellen and wants to save her and humanity. It is Ellen he thinks about as he returns to Earth and feels the sting of regret that he killed her husband, and decides to spend the rest of her life making it up to her.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep></s>

Joe and Harvey land on Planetoid 42 and enter a bar. They see Genius, an incredible looking creature with six limbs, and immediately become interested in him. They tell the bartender, Johnson, that they’re very thirsty, so he sells them each eight glasses of water, and they guzzle them down. Harvey and Joe are horrified to find out that the water is highly expensive. Johnson explains that the water must be purified. When the pair leaves, they find a pipe in a small pond and realize that Johnson has undoubtedly swindled them. The sweet water is readily available and it is transported directly to the saloon via this pipe. Harvey and Joe head back to the bar. Joe comes down with a sudden illness, and it’s clear that this is a con the men use all the time. Johnson recognizes that Joe has asteroid fever and becomes frightened. Harvey explains that the only medication that will provide an instant cure is the one they happen to be selling: La-anago Yergis.Joe is instantly cured once Harvey pours the special liquid into his mouth. Johnson is flabbergasted and wants to purchase an entire case. While in the privacy of their ship, Joe and Harvey discuss their joint desire to purchase Genius. They believe they could make a fortune off of him if they featured him in an exhibit. Johnson accepts the fake solution and informs Harvey and Joe that his restaurant is open. After looking at the menu, the men are astounded at the low prices. However, they soon find out that they have been taken advantage of when they receive a bill for a very large sum of money. They learn that the fine print they missed on the menu explains the charge. When Joe tells Johnson they won’t pay the bill, Johnson reminds them that he is in fact the Sheriff as well as the saloon owner and the mayor. Harvey requests to purchase Genius, and Johnson agrees. In a last ditch effort to recoup some more money, Harvey brings up an invention they have on their ship that Johnson must see. Joe brings back a radio that was supposedly created by a famous doctor. It is special because it broadcasts from the fourth dimension. They convince Johnson that he is the perfect person to make sense of the garbled transmissions. Johnson pays extra for the special batteries it takes.Just as Harvey and Joe make it back to the ship with Genius, the creature informs them that he cannot leave the planet because another planet’s pressure would squish him to death. And yes, he admits, Johnson was fully aware of this fact when he sold him. When Harvey does the math involved in the various exchanges of goods, he realizes that after all that time and the several cons they engaged in, he and Joe made a measly four cents. The men take off on their ship and head to Mars.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep></s>

Harvey and Joe are business partners and conmen. Although they are both important players in their various ruses, Harvey is definitely the brains behind the operation. Joe is willing to listen to Harvey’s instructions and play along in order to get money out of their victims. However, he is also a bit more hot-headed than his partner, and it’s up to Harvey to calm Joe down when he gets flustered because they are taken advantage of. When Joe finds out about the sweet water that Johnson lied about, he is instantly irate. Later, when Johnson tricks them into ordering loads of food at his restaurant, Joe is furious and threatens not to pay the bill. In both instances, Harvey recognizes that the pair was fooled fair and square and all they can do is accept the loss. It is obvious that the two have been working together for a long time because they are able to communicate using very few words and gestures. They both know their playbook of tricks, and it is easy for each of the men to tip the other off to their thoughts. After meeting Genius, Harvey and Joe immediately agree that they should try and acquire the creature. Both men are money-minded and they see dollar signs when they lay their eyes on an alien as peculiar as him. When the duo wants to sell their medicine, Joe pretends to come down with symptoms of asteroid fever, and Harvey doesn’t miss a beat. Within moments he asks Joe if he’s feeling okay and goes to fetch the fake panacea that they peddle.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep></s>

Genius is an important character because he is used to illustrate just how brilliant Johnson is. The man is clearly intelligent because he has positioned himself as the sheriff, the barman, and the mayor of Planetoid 42. He also makes money by fooling gullible outsiders into paying high prices for water and food. However, his idea to sell Genius over and over again is perhaps the most shrewd. His asking price for the remarkable creature is in the 600s, much more than he’s able to charge for water or dishes at his restaurant. Johnson pretends that he’s attached to Genius and would hate to see him go, yet he cannot turn down the incredible sum of money. Each time Genius is sold to naive buyers, he ends up making his way right back to Johnson’s bar, and Johnson profits all of the money. Genius cannot leave the planet because the pressure in other habitats is too much for his unique body to handle. If one of the buyers insisted on bringing him aboard their ship, he would turn up dead and useless to them anyway. Therefore, they always send the poor creature back to Johnson and lose out on their plans to make loads of money off of him.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep></s>

Joe and Harvey are professional conmen, so they are quite good at swindling innocent victims. They make their money by peddling a fake panacea called La-anago Yergis. The men regularly partake in an act where Joe falls ill and Harvey has to come to his rescue with the extract. Although Johnson falls for this trick and purchases an entire case of the medicine, he also does a great job of getting Harvey and Joe back. At the end of the story, the opposing sides come out basically even in terms of financial gains. Johnson first demonstrates that he can take advantage of Harvey and Joe when he gives them each eight glasses of water before letting them know that he charges a lot for each glass. The men say they’re thirsty, so he is happy to give them as much as they’d like to drink. Although Johnson says that the water costs so much because it must be specially purified, the truth is that he has access to an entire body of water and there really isn’t any reason to charge so much.Later, Johnson convinces Harvey and Joe that they’re hungry enough to sit down at his restaurant even though neither one had even mentioned food. He allows them to order their food and believe that they’re getting an incredible deal until he tells them about the fine print on the menu. Harvey and Joe are forced to fork over hundreds of dollars for their meal, and when they threaten to walk out, Johnson reminds them that he is the sheriff on Planetoid 42, and he has the power to arrest them.

<s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep></s>

Planetoid 42 is a place without much to offer besides a port. It is heavily polluted, covered in plants that are similar to vines, and boasts only one saloon. It is home to only two humans, Johnson and his son Jeb, and Genius, a fantastic creature with six limbs that is unlike anything Joe and Harvey have ever seen before. The planet has gravity, which made it possible for Jed to grow to eight feet tall. Genius is also able to thrive on Planetoid 42 while he would perish on other planets with more gravity. Although Johnson says that the water must be purified so it doesn’t taste bitter, the truth is that there’s a large pool with sweet water on the planet. Johnson insists that he has to charge a lot of money for water in part because he has very few customers. The planet is mostly deserted and people only show up to his bar if they’re in trouble.Johnson makes the rules because he is in charge of everything. He is the sheriff, fire chief, mayor, justice of the peace, and restaurateur.

<s> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours. You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature? No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this. So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft. Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there. There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it. Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target. Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom? I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us. Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light. Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist. Howdy, said the priest. He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on. Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag? Ha-Adamah, said the man. And your daughter, or niece? It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human. The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock. I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue? I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English. We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou? The fountain. Ah—I see. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—? Of course they do. You know that as well as I. I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth? All things are possible. And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one! It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting? It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated. I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible. It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here? Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however. And have you gotten no older in all that time? I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning. And do you think that you will ever die? To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine. And are you completely happy here? Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost. Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man? Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect. Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced. Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers? This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark. I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move. No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect. Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it. No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you. <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark. The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him. They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off. A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness. I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil. I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection. So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited. <doc-sep>Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings: It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of. I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch. You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity. This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can. He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world. He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb. I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion. And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell. I'm working on it. <doc-sep>Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty— And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton. Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort? It's as phony as a seven-credit note! You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt? It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers. What? If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally. They looked at the priest thoughtfully. But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last. How? All the time we were there the woman did not speak. <doc-sep></s>

The story describes the crew of a probe spaceship as it investigates an extraterrestrial world. The crew is made up of Stark, Gilbert, Steiner, Langweilig, Craig, and Briton—the captain, executive officer, crewmember, engineer, part-owner of the probe, and a Catholic priest respectively.From orbit, the crew scans the moon using various technological instruments. They discover abundant highly developed life forms including a small location of sentient life, possibly of extraordinary magnitude. They descend to the moon’s surface near the location of the sentient life. They discover a multitude of plants and animals that are found on Earth, also finding two individuals that appear to be human, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah.Their investigation of the surroundings bears a startling resemblance to the biblical story of Genesis. The crew is bewildered to consider that this may indeed be a new Garden of Eden which never fell into sin and was preserved as a perfect paradise.After remaining for a few days, the crew returns to their probe. They remark how immoral it would be to meddle such an unspoiled paradise, but nevertheless begin the process of advertising the world to potential colonizers who would indeed exploit the moon for profit.Surprisingly, it is revealed that back on the planet that the individuals that were merely posing as Ha-Adamah and Hawwah working with their boss, Snake-oil Sam, to deceive potential colonists, ambushing them upon arrival and confiscating their valuable supplies and equipment.Back on the probe Father Briton chides the rest of the crew that they had been taken in by an obvious ruse and to inform any potential colonists to prepare for armed resistance. The incredulous crew demands to know the reasoning behind his conclusion. He casually says that besides what he contended were glaring inaccuracies, the fact that Ha-Adamah refused to play him in checkers despite claiming to have a preternaturally perfect intellect was all the proof he needed.

<s> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours. You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature? No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this. So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft. Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there. There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it. Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target. Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom? I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us. Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light. Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist. Howdy, said the priest. He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on. Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag? Ha-Adamah, said the man. And your daughter, or niece? It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human. The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock. I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue? I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English. We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou? The fountain. Ah—I see. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—? Of course they do. You know that as well as I. I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth? All things are possible. And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one! It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting? It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated. I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible. It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here? Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however. And have you gotten no older in all that time? I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning. And do you think that you will ever die? To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine. And are you completely happy here? Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost. Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man? Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect. Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced. Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers? This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark. I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move. No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect. Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it. No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you. <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark. The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him. They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off. A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness. I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil. I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection. So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited. <doc-sep>Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings: It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of. I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch. You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity. This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can. He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world. He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb. I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion. And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell. I'm working on it. <doc-sep>Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty— And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton. Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort? It's as phony as a seven-credit note! You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt? It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers. What? If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally. They looked at the priest thoughtfully. But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last. How? All the time we were there the woman did not speak. <doc-sep></s>

There are two main groups of characters: the crew of the Little Probe and the inhabitants of the “Garden” world.The crew of the Little Probe consist of Stark, the captain; Gilbert, the executive officer; Steiner, a generall crewmember “flunky”; Langweilig, the engineer; Craig, a businessman and part-owner of the ship; and Fr. Briton, priest, linguist, and checkers afficionado. Stark is the leader of the group, commanding the others to their various tasks. Craig is shown to be a shrewd entrepreneur who is most intent on reaping potential profit from the situation they find themselves in.On the moon lives Ha-Adamah and Hawwah who present themselves as archetypes of the biblical Adam and Eve. In reality, they are settlers, attempting to gather supplies to farm this world by stealing supplies from other settlers that they entice to world and then ambush. They are commanded by Snake-Oil Sam, a cynical, former showbusiness professional who runs the con.The two groups interact when the crew descends to the surface of the moon. Ha-Adamah describes his environment in casual but bewildering terms to his visitors. Briton, as a Catholic priest, is designated by the crew to be Ha-Adamah’s main interlocutor. Hawwah, notedly does not speak at all—a flourish to attempt to further depict the attractiveness of the world to their all-male visitors. The crew beside Briton are enamored by the environment of the moon and are totally taken in by the performance of their hosts. The story concludes with Briton chiding his crewmates for their gullibility. Although Briton perhaps had the most reason to believe the moon was divinely ordained, he saw through the charade without much difficulty.

<s> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours. You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature? No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this. So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft. Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there. There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it. Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target. Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom? I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us. Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light. Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist. Howdy, said the priest. He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on. Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag? Ha-Adamah, said the man. And your daughter, or niece? It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human. The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock. I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue? I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English. We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou? The fountain. Ah—I see. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—? Of course they do. You know that as well as I. I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth? All things are possible. And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one! It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting? It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated. I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible. It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here? Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however. And have you gotten no older in all that time? I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning. And do you think that you will ever die? To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine. And are you completely happy here? Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost. Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man? Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect. Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced. Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers? This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark. I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move. No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect. Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it. No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you. <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark. The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him. They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off. A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness. I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil. I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection. So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited. <doc-sep>Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings: It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of. I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch. You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity. This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can. He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world. He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb. I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion. And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell. I'm working on it. <doc-sep>Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty— And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton. Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort? It's as phony as a seven-credit note! You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt? It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers. What? If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally. They looked at the priest thoughtfully. But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last. How? All the time we were there the woman did not speak. <doc-sep></s>

The story takes place on an unnamed extraterrestrial moon and a small probe that is visiting the moon to investigate its suitability for development. The moon is an earthlike environment that appears to be a perfect paradise in every respect. The land is fertile, the wild animals are domesticated, and there is an abundance of fruit to eat and minerals to potentially harvest. The description of the world that the crew receives depicts it as a true Eden—a perfect paradise. Also on the moon is a massive cave, from where the inhabitants of the moon store their stolen goods and prepare to ambush unsuspecting potential settlers.

<s> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours. You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature? No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this. So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft. Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there. There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it. Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target. Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom? I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us. Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light. Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist. Howdy, said the priest. He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on. Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag? Ha-Adamah, said the man. And your daughter, or niece? It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human. The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock. I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue? I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English. We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou? The fountain. Ah—I see. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—? Of course they do. You know that as well as I. I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth? All things are possible. And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one! It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting? It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated. I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible. It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here? Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however. And have you gotten no older in all that time? I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning. And do you think that you will ever die? To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine. And are you completely happy here? Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost. Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man? Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect. Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced. Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers? This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark. I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move. No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect. Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it. No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you. <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark. The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him. They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off. A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness. I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil. I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection. So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited. <doc-sep>Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings: It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of. I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch. You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity. This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can. He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world. He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb. I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion. And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell. I'm working on it. <doc-sep>Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty— And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton. Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort? It's as phony as a seven-credit note! You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt? It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers. What? If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally. They looked at the priest thoughtfully. But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last. How? All the time we were there the woman did not speak. <doc-sep></s>

Christianity is a central component of the story. The heart of the narrative revolves around the description of the world as a replica of the biblical Garden of Eden. The author goes into extensive detail regarding the aspects of the garden and its inhabitants and how they conform to aspects of the Genesis narrative and how it was understood by religious analysis. It is heavily suggested that here, the Serpent did not succeed in convincing man to sin and fall from grace as was the case in the biblical narrative. As a result, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah (the Hebrew names for Adam and Eve) remain clothed in light and still enjoy the preternatural gifts of creation including a highly advanced intellect, immortality and even an illuminated appearance.It is revealed that this depiction is a deception on the part of the moon’s inhabitants. Interestingly, the 4 non-believers on the crew are the most ready to believe that the state of affairs on the planet is indeed supernatural. It is only the clever priest who possesses faith, but employs the skepticism necessary to see through the fraud.

<s> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours. You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature? No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this. So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft. Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there. There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it. Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target. Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom? I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us. Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light. Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist. Howdy, said the priest. He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on. Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag? Ha-Adamah, said the man. And your daughter, or niece? It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human. The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock. I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue? I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English. We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou? The fountain. Ah—I see. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—? Of course they do. You know that as well as I. I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth? All things are possible. And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one! It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting? It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated. I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible. It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here? Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however. And have you gotten no older in all that time? I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning. And do you think that you will ever die? To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine. And are you completely happy here? Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost. Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man? Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect. Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced. Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers? This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark. I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move. No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect. Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it. No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you. <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark. The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him. They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off. A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness. I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil. I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection. So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited. <doc-sep>Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings: It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of. I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch. You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity. This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can. He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world. He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb. I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion. And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell. I'm working on it. <doc-sep>Casper Craig was still dictating the gram: Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty— And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton. Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort? It's as phony as a seven-credit note! You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt? It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers. What? If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally. They looked at the priest thoughtfully. But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last. How? All the time we were there the woman did not speak. <doc-sep></s>

Human sinfulness and its collective fall from grace are referenced in several ways in the story. Ha-Adamah contrasts his world’s perfection with the fallenness that is apparent in the visitors. He claims to be free from the stain of original sin. He presents himself as perfectly happy and not subject to corruption, aging, or death. This is contrasted with Earth's humanity which was fated to “lose that happiness, and then to seek it vainly through all the ages.”The entire crew of the Little Probe agree on the unacceptability of spoiling a pristine world. Even so, they irresistibly and almost gleefully prepare to exploit the world’s riches.Snake-Oil Sam expounds upon this inclination. He claims that on top of the very real greed of the visitors they’ve deceived over the years, they are capitalizing on the human desire to despoil the unspoiled. This is a clear summation of concupiscence—the inclination for fallen humanity to tend toward sin. It is clear that Sam and his associates are just as fallen as the other individuals in the story, preying on others to further their own goals.

<s> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.” Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?” “Of course.” Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and route next.” Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?” “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.” “How about the Bugs?” “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.” “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?” “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.” Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth. “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?” “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.” He settled back in his chair and continued. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it. One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about me , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind. It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

James Baron is planning a trek to Brightside Crossing on Mercury, a feat so far unaccomplished. Few had tried, and those that did died. All except for one. He is asked to wait at the Red Baron as someone wanted to see him at 8. He waits patiently and is rewarded with the company of Peter Claney, the man who made it back home. Claney instantly tells him to give up on the journey and stay on Earth. Baron asks for details about their trek and what went wrong, but Claney refuses to give him the details. Claney is an older man now with an epithelioma on his face. Although he came to warn him, he quickly learns that Baron may only listen if he hears the truth. So Claney recounts the story. Major Tom Mikuta recruited Claney, Jack Stone, and Ted McIvers to join him. They were to adventure to the Brightside Crossing at perihelion, a more dangerous journey. Temperatures reached up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit at perihelion, but Mikuta was an all-or-nothing man. Stone arrived on Mercury first, soon followed by Mikuta and Claney. McIvers was the last to arrive and they left soon after with three Bugs and one tractor dragging the sledges. Stone was briefed by Sanderson, the head of the observatory, before they left, and the men pored over all images and maps of the Crossing before beginning. Despite their high-tech spacesuits and general gadgets, the giant sun still got to them. They were constantly thirsty and hot, and their skin itched and burned. They drove for eight hours, then slept for five. They needed to travel 70 miles a day. It would take 30 days to reach the Center, and then another 30 to reach the pick-up spot. The journey quickly took a toll on Stone, who was the most apprehensive of the bunch. He retreats into himself, while McIvers chatters nonstop to fill the silence. Tension grew among the crew, especially as McIvers put himself at risk by adventuring away from them. Claney lead the gang in his Bug, while McIvers and Mikuta flanked him. Stone was in the very back. If Claney saw something suspicious or unsafe, they would investigate on foot before continuing in their equipment. As they travel, they got closer to the Sun, which appeared to be twice as big as it did on Earth. Several drives into their journey, McIvers discovered something truly terrible on one of his forrays. He screamed into the intercom, alerting the others who quickly rushed after him. He stood there, pointing below. There lay a broken, older Bug and two corpses. Wyatt and Carpenter, the original discoverers. They continued on with disheartened spirits until Claney reached a cleft. There was no way to cross it, except for a very small and dangerous ledge. The cleft slowly began to crumble under their Bugs and they’re left in a very precarious position.

<s> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.” Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?” “Of course.” Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and route next.” Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?” “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.” “How about the Bugs?” “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.” “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?” “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.” Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth. “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?” “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.” He settled back in his chair and continued. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it. One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about me , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind. It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

From the get-go, Claney is clear in his obvious mistrust of McIvers and his preceding reputation. Late to Mercury, he arrives ready to explore. With long, gray hair and paradoxically drowsy yet alert eyes, McIvers’ constant movement and chatter get on his colleague’s nerves. McIvers is a famous climber known for pushing the boundaries and being a daredevil. After his arrival on Mercury, he and the crew soon set out for their treacherous journey to the Brightside Crossing. He switches spots with Stone, so he would have control of a Bug. He also asks to explore four or five miles ahead of the rest of the crew to see if it’s dangerous footing ahead. Mikuta quickly shuts him down. McIvers talks nonstop through the intercoms or when they’re supposed to be resting. As well, he disobeys Mikuta’s orders and occasionally drifts off from the rest of the group, discovering things as he goes. He never drifts far enough to receive any real punishment, though he does get farther away every time. During one of his side-explorations, he discovers a wrecked Bug and two corpses belonging to Wyatt and Carpenter, the previous explorers of the Brightside Crossing. With this shocking find, he returns to the crew in silence.

<s> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.” Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?” “Of course.” Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and route next.” Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?” “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.” “How about the Bugs?” “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.” “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?” “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.” Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth. “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?” “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.” He settled back in his chair and continued. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it. One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about me , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind. It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse mostly takes place on the surface of Mercury. The main characters begin in an observatory equipped to support human life as well as do research on the planet itself. However, they quickly move on in their journey to cross the Brightside at perihelion. Full of craters, gorges, and cracked land, the planet’s surface is incredibly dangerous to travel on. Sulfurous, hot winds blow across the planet. Beyond the towering, rocky spears and jagged gorges lay yellow valleys and flatlands. The gas beneath the surface of the planet can cause volcanic-like eruptions. This gas can also imply rise up from the core and poison the atmosphere around it. Gray dust caused by years of erosion rested atop every surface. Mercury is an incredibly hot planet, being the nearest to the sun, and the surface reflects that.

<s> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.” Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?” “Of course.” Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and route next.” Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?” “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.” “How about the Bugs?” “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.” “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?” “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.” Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth. “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?” “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.” He settled back in his chair and continued. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it. One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about me , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind. It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The Brightside Crossing is an undiscovered portion of Mercury. It is the closest planet to the sun, and the Brightside is the surface that is face-to-face with the surface of the sun most of the time, thanks to Mercury’s quick orbit. It is an incredibly dangerous area of Mercury, with temperatures reaching up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit, possibly more. Because of the difficult atmosphere, the presence of dangerous gases, treacherous landscape, and the heat, the Brightside Crossing remained undiscovered and uninhabitable for hundreds of years. Major Tom Mikuta decided to follow in the footsteps of Wyatt and Carpenter and take on the challenge. The promise of power and discovery draws the main characters forward, as well as the idea of being the first. Mikuta claims that if he were to make the crossing, Mercury would be his. The challenge of the Brightside Crossing is the origin of their desire.

<s> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.” Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?” “Of course.” Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and route next.” Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?” “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.” “How about the Bugs?” “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.” “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?” “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.” Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth. “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?” “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.” He settled back in his chair and continued. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it. One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about me , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind. It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Jack Stone arrives on the surface of Mercury around a week ahead of his partners. It’s revealed rather early on that Stone is not much of an explorer himself. His wits and genius make him an invaluable resource, but his heart wasn’t necessarily in the right place. Claney claims that Stone only came to follow Major Mikuta around, a man he deeply respected and admired. At barely 25 years old, Stone was the youngest member of the team. His experience with Mikuta at the Vulcan qualified him for the trek, or so he thought, and so he tagged along. His apprehension and anxiety about the trip are evident from the beginning. After Sanderson, the leader of an observatory on Mercury, explained how treacherous their journey was going to be, Stone almost cried. Once they begin their trek, Stone retreats further into himself. Jack’s job was to drag the sledges behind the rest of the crew. Possibly fed up by McIvers’ constant joking or tortured by the fear that he would be lost on this planet forever, Stone became a shell of himself. In the end, after McIvers discovered the corpses of the two discoverers that came before them, Wyatt and Carpenter, we can only assume that Stone’s fear and reservedness increased tremendously.

<s> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him. There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot. Look at that damned nosy bird! A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions. And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker. The real Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings! <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon. It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion. Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here. Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said: We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin. He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me. Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie! That was oneof those damned cockatoo images. We've got to catch him. The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead. I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in. The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head. Heat gun! Ezra yelled. Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen. The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside. The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space. The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp. What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest. Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep></s>

The mining for a precious ore called Acoustix has spurred colonization of Jupiter’s eighth moon by two mining companies called Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. There is a barren desert landscape between the mining areas of the two companies that is called the Baldric. The only plant appears to be trees that have melon-shaped tops, and the only animal is a silver parrot-like bird that is capable of imitating human speech, and also of imitating human forms in a holographic-like manner.Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, who is travelling to the Baldric with her martian employee, Xartal, who takes detailed drawings that are the background research for her next novel. She is travelling in a party of four: herself, Xartal, Ezra Karn (old prospector), and the narrator (called Billy-boy by Grannie).Strange happenings are known to occur in the Baldric. They encounter a silver bird that repeats English words and creates what seems like a mirage of themselves projected in the distance which disappears as it comes closer. They do not know at the time, but the parrot has created this mirage based on viewing one of the lifelike drawings that Xartal is making of the group.They happen to run into Jimmy Baker, the manager of the Larynx Incorporated mining company, who is interested in Grannie’s help sorting out the root cause of his workers coming down with “red spot fever” which causes them to leave their work and walk into the Baldric, never to return. They travel to Larynx Incorporated’s offices with Jimmy, where he learns all of the workers from Shaft Four have left their posts due to the fever. Coincidentally, that is also their most productive ore location. Jimmy, Grannie, and Xartal take off to Shaft Four via the Baldric to investigate what is going on. During their travel, they break for camp near a flock of the birds and discover their ability to imitate human forms.Antlers Karn, the manager of Interstellar Voice, turns out to be a bad guy who ambushes Grannie’s camp. He is trying to sabotage Jimmy’s company by causing the red spot fever to stop them from capitalizing on a huge deposit of Acoustix they discovered in Shaft Four. He steals Jimmy’s car and kidnaps a mirage-version of Grannie. Billy and Ezra chase them down and discover Antlers has stranded their friends in a valley thirty miles away. Grannie has independently solved the mystery of the Red Spot Fever and sending her mirage with Antlers was part of her master plan. When Billy and Ezra return to her, Jimmy is projecting ultra-violet light onto a large group of the Shaft Four workers in a deep valley gorge. This counteracts the infra-red radiation that put them into a trance-like state that caused them to wander into the desert.Grannie, Jimmy, Xartal, Billy, and Ezra are triumphantly returning the workers to Shaft Four at the close of the story.

<s> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him. There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot. Look at that damned nosy bird! A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions. And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker. The real Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings! <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon. It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion. Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here. Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said: We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin. He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me. Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie! That was oneof those damned cockatoo images. We've got to catch him. The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead. I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in. The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head. Heat gun! Ezra yelled. Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen. The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside. The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space. The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp. What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest. Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep></s>

In the buildings of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated, two Acoustix ore mining companies on Jupiter’s eighth moon.The Baldric - the largely deserted space between the mining grounds of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. It is a desert-like place with trees that are trunks with melon-shaped tops, and silver birds that can repeat English phrases as well as mimic human forms that appear like mirages. There is also a deep valley gorge within the desert and many eyries which seem similar to oases.There are several scenes aboard kite-propelled cars in the Baldric, as well as visiphone-like video feed of Jimmy’s car that is viewed from the offices of Larynx Incorporated.Shaft Four is one of the locations that Larynx Incorporated mines in on the border of the Baldric, which is talked about often, but is never actually visited by the main characters during the story.

<s> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him. There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot. Look at that damned nosy bird! A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions. And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker. The real Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings! <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon. It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion. Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here. Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said: We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin. He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me. Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie! That was oneof those damned cockatoo images. We've got to catch him. The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead. I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in. The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head. Heat gun! Ezra yelled. Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen. The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside. The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space. The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp. What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest. Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep></s>

Jimmy Baker is the manager of the Acoustix ore mining company called Larynx Incorporated on Jupiter’s eighth moon. Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, well known for her authentic background research for her novels. She is exploring the eighth moon of Jupiter for her newest novel.Jimmy has knowledge of Grannie’s work and is hoping she can help him solve the mystery of the Red Spot Fever with her excellent problem solving skills. Grannie does not appear to know Jimmy before their meeting in the Baldric. They have a cordial and collaborative relationship through the story that results in solving the mystery.

<s> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him. There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot. Look at that damned nosy bird! A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions. And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker. The real Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings! <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon. It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion. Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here. Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said: We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin. He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me. Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie! That was oneof those damned cockatoo images. We've got to catch him. The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead. I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in. The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head. Heat gun! Ezra yelled. Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen. The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside. The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space. The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp. What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest. Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep></s>

It is a precious, lightweight ore found on at least one of Jupiter’s moons (eighth moon) that is highly valuable on Mars, but of no value on Earth. Martians are able to speak out loud as Earthlings do by supersonically amplifying their thoughts. As Martians grow beyond middle age, they are no longer able to do this amplification without the assistance of the Acoustix ore. Thus, it is highly valuable to them.The ore is the only reason for colonization of Jupiter’s moons, and there are two main companies that mine it - Interstellar Voice, Larynx Incorporated. It becomes a source of greed, which causes the manager of Interstellar Voice (Antlers Karn) to attempt sabotage against the other company, serving as the main climax of the story.

<s> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him. There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot. Look at that damned nosy bird! A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions. And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker. The real Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings! <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon. It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion. Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here. Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching. It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said: We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin. He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me. Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie! That was oneof those damned cockatoo images. We've got to catch him. The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead. I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in. The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head. Heat gun! Ezra yelled. Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen. The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside. The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space. The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp. What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded. The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest. Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep></s>

The symptoms of the fever are described as “garrulousness” followed by the victims leaving their post and walking into the Baldric desert.The fever is brought on by infra-red rays from Jupiter’s great spot. Normally, people on this moon aren’t coming down with the fever from their regular activities. However, a lens-like device mounted in the window of the worker barracks at Larynx Incorporated projects the infra-red rays from the great spot around the room onto the sleeping workers which puts them into this trance-like state.Antlers Karn is responsible for causing the Red Spot Fever by having the devices installed in his competitors' barracks. He also claims to have developed an antitoxin that would reverse the fever, however, it is implied that this was only a lie to cover up his actions.

<s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone? He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf. Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain? It's possible, but we're not. I wish I could be sure. See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him? I still can't believe it. He'll never be the same. Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere? You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly— Yes, of course. But I mean beside that. Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up. But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend? Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself. Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo. I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir. Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs? Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky. Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone. No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked. That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep></s>

Purnie, an animal, is going to see the ocean on his fifth birthday. He has heard stories about this place, and experiencing it firsthand is surreal for him. Purnie is careful not to disturb the animals he sees along the way because he has frozen time, and everything must resume normally when he unfreezes it. He knows that time-stopping is forbidden for animals his age, but he chooses to believe that his family will be proud of his bravery. Finally, he sees the ocean in front of him, and he resumes time. He does a head-stand and feels weak and dizzy. These feelings are a result of the time-stop, and he knows it. Purnie approaches some humans on the beach. A man named Forbes is in the middle of explaining to his captain, Benson, that he has found 17 planets to claim as his own. Forbes is hellbent on raising his FORBES flag as soon as possible. He is eager to stake his claim to the land and says that his mission is much bigger than real estate alone. Benson retorts that yes, his mission is bigger than just real estate because his paperwork says that Forbes will own all of the inhabitants of the planets he claims as well as the land. The crew members use a special machine and find radiation emanating from Purnie. Forbes demands that they put the animal in a box. Benson protests and reminds Forbes that it’s against Universal Law, but Forbes insists. Purnie experiences his first-ever impulse to run away with fear when a noose comes towards him. He goes back to pick up his fruit, and Forbes shoots him in the leg. When the man throws the noose again, Purnie involuntarily stops time. He drags himself up the knoll where he originally came from. The humans are astonished when time resumes and Purnie is not where he was a split second ago. They spot him up on top of a pile of petrified logs, and suddenly the logs fall down the hill and pin the men down. Purnie is shocked and regretful. The whole thing was an accident. He deliberately stops time and uses all of his remaining strength to lift the logs off of the humans. Purnie begins to lose consciousness, and he knows that he must resume time or he will die. After pouring all of his strength into this action, time does begin again. The humans resume life and feel as though they have gone mad. They know that they were just facing death by drowning, and now they are free. The logs were so heavy that it would have taken superhuman strength to move them. Forbes, in particular, has really gone mad, and he laughs to himself uncontrollably. Benson believes that Purnie was responsible for moving the logs, but of course that seems physically impossible. Purnie stares off at the beautiful ocean views and watches the men leave in their vehicle as he dies.

<s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone? He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf. Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain? It's possible, but we're not. I wish I could be sure. See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him? I still can't believe it. He'll never be the same. Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere? You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly— Yes, of course. But I mean beside that. Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up. But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend? Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself. Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo. I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir. Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs? Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky. Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone. No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked. That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep></s>

Forbes is the head of the expedition to claim planets, and Benson is the Captain of the crew. Forbes provides all of the money to make the trips possible, and he pays Benson’s and the other mens’ salaries. Captain Benson is responsible for keeping all of the men safe and making sure the trip goes smoothly. Although Forbes is Benson’s superior, Benson does feel the need to speak his mind to Forbes. When Forbes demands that Benson’s crew stop dawdling and hurry up and put his FORBES flag up, Benson tells Forbes that they are only humans. Of course they are interested in the new environment and want to take a moment to look around. He is not afraid to tell Forbes that capturing Purnie or injuring him is against Universal Laws. Benson does not want to take part in illegal activities, and he scoffs at Forbes’ remarks that he is a pioneer and not a real estate developer. He openly tells Forbes that he knows he will triple his money after claiming these planets, so it’s not like he’s doing it for the greater good of humanity. Benson also asks Forbes if he’s going to take his 17 new planets back home with him to San Diego. It’s clear that Benson has little respect for Forbes and the way he conducts his business, but at the same time, he needs a job and Forbes is providing him with an incredible opportunity to survey all sorts of different planets.Benson has to face Forbes’ wrath when Purnie goes missing after Forbes shoots him and they attempt to put a noose around his neck. After Purnie unfreezes time, the men are confused as to what they just saw. Forbes turns to Benson and tells him that he is holding him responsible for this mishap even though there is zero evidence that Benson did anything wrong.After the logs fall on the men and Purnie uses all of his remaining strength to save their lives, Forbes is completely out of his mind. Benson finds it a bit humorous, especially since he has an inkling that Purnie, the bug-eyed creature, was behind the whole thing. He does not respect Forbes and thinks his disconnect to reality and repetitive laughter is what he deserves for the way he treated Purnie, himself, and the crew.

<s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone? He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf. Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain? It's possible, but we're not. I wish I could be sure. See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him? I still can't believe it. He'll never be the same. Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere? You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly— Yes, of course. But I mean beside that. Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up. But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend? Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself. Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo. I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir. Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs? Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky. Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone. No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked. That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep></s>

The unnamed planet where the story takes place is breathtaking, colorful, and lively with all sorts of fauna and flora unknown to Earth. There is blue moss on the forest floors, bubbling streams, and orange pools of water. There are also bees, purple clouds, petrified logs by the ocean, and three-legged animals who eat seaweed. The orange ocean waves crash against the sand, and two moons hover in the sky. Humans have never touched this land, so Purnie is surprised that he has never heard his brothers or parents talk about the two-legged animals who make strange sounds. He does not understand that they have just landed their ship here and are experiencing the land for the first time.

<s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone? He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf. Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain? It's possible, but we're not. I wish I could be sure. See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him? I still can't believe it. He'll never be the same. Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere? You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly— Yes, of course. But I mean beside that. Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up. But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend? Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself. Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo. I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir. Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs? Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky. Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone. No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked. That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep></s>

Although Purnie is an animal and not a human, he plays a very important role in the story. Through his understanding of the world, we learn that he has never felt real fear before. This makes sense because although he has been warned about stopping time, and he has explicitly been told that it could lead to his death, he decides to go ahead with his birthday plan anyway and stop time and see the ocean. When the humans throw a noose at him in an attempt to capture him, he is shocked to find that his body instinctively runs from it. He doesn’t really experience the fear because he wants to play with them and has no interest in leaving the fun, but his natural impulses as an animal save his life at this moment. Humans have never before visited his planet, so this means that no other animal Purnie has come in contact with has made his body react this way. Purnie also demonstrates how evil Forbes is for trying to capture and kill such an innocent and caring animal. When Benson reminds Forbes that it’s illegal to shoot or capture Purnie, Forbes does not care at all. He wants the animal that is emitting radiation because he believes he can make a profit off of him. The value of Purnie’s life means nothing to him. However, as soon as Purnie feels as though his “friends” are in danger, he is willing to risk his own life by stopping time to help them. Purnie feels guilt, regret, and sorrow when he accidentally causes the petrified logs to fall on the men, yet Forbes has none of those feelings when he shoots Purnie in the leg and causes him pain.

<s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone? He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf. Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain? It's possible, but we're not. I wish I could be sure. See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him? I still can't believe it. He'll never be the same. Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere? You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly— Yes, of course. But I mean beside that. Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up. But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend? Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself. Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo. I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir. Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs? Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky. Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone. No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked. That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep></s>

Forbes believes he can control anyone and anything he comes in contact with. His first order of business upon landing on the gorgeous planet is to put up his flag emblazoned with his name. When Benson reminds him that the crew members are interested in taking a moment to look around, Forbes reprimands him for suggesting that they have the right to waste his money. He believes that putting up his flag is a symbol of defeat, and he is incredibly eager to take over a planet he literally just landed on and knows almost nothing about. He incessantly talks about the 17 other planets he has already conquered, and he calls himself a pioneer. Although Forbes definitely makes a lot of money by claiming these planets, he is more interested in the control and fame it brings him than the money he will inevitably make. The first time that Purnie freezes time to escape the noose after Forbes shoots him in the leg, Forbes is incredibly confused but willing to blame the glitch on Benson. He shot Purnie after explicitly being told not to, so he assumes that Benson secretly managed to aid Purnie in getting away. He is furious at this act because capturing the animal emitting radiation is very important to him. He doesn't care if it’s illegal or immoral. He wants control of the planet, the animal, and the crew. The second time that Purnie freezes time, Forbes cannot simply ignore it. He knows that he saw the petrified logs falling down the hill, he knows that he saw several crew members pinned under the logs, about to drown, and he knows that he himself was in a near-death situation one second and saved in the next. There is simply no explanation in his mind for what occurred, and his brain can’t compute the mysterious event. He laughs hysterically because he can’t process the information that his brain receives. He was about to die, and now he is perfectly fine, and he has no explanation for the chain of events.

<s> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts. Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers. Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff. What in hell do you want? Extrone asked. They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began. Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice. Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir. Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed? We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir. So? Extrone mocked. We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it. Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here. The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir.... Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you? Yes, sir. When we located it, sir. You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said. We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep></s>

Extrone is a very important person of influence who is on a hunting trip looking for farn beasts on an outer planet. He has hired guides, Ri and Mia, who are businessmen who have successfully shot a farn beast on a prior private trip. They attempted to conceal their killing of a farn beast on that trip, however, the word got out and now Extrone has forced them (seemingly against their will) to be the guides for his own trip. Ri and Mia do not turn out to be very good guides. Mia is unsupportive of Extrone and suspicious of his activities and potential plans to violently attack the aliens, and Ri is fearful of that talk and of Extrone himself causing him to be unhelpful as a guide.Extrone refers to being loved by his “subjects” suggesting he has a position of royalty or power. The military is at his disposal and seem eager to please him. He is highly focused on finding and killing a farn beast any way possible - and attempts sacrificing his guide Ri as bait for the animal to do it. He kills Mia by shooting him in the back after Ri accuses him of intent to kill Extrone, suggesting Extrone is a violent ruler.Extrone’s focus is on killing a farn beast and this blinds him to the existence of an alien trap on the planet. It is heavily implied that the aliens have intentions to do harm to Extrone, and it is revealed that his fixation on the farn beast led him directly into a trap set by the aliens to capture him.

<s> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts. Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers. Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff. What in hell do you want? Extrone asked. They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began. Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice. Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir. Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed? We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir. So? Extrone mocked. We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it. Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here. The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir.... Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you? Yes, sir. When we located it, sir. You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said. We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep></s>

The farn beast is capable of killing humans and aliens. It resides on alien planets, but is rare within the human-occupied system. It is thought by Extrone that Ri may have been one of the only humans to ever see and shoot one.They are described as having long fangs and being carnivorous. Their main sound is a coughing noise, which can be used to locate how far away they are. They do indeed seem attracted to humans, as they are drawn to Ri screaming when he is placed as bait at the watering hole.The farn beast is significant, because as Extrone and his party are focused on hunting them, it is revealed that the beast itself is being used as bait by aliens to lure Extrone to the planet.

<s> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts. Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers. Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff. What in hell do you want? Extrone asked. They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began. Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice. Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir. Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed? We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir. So? Extrone mocked. We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it. Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here. The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir.... Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you? Yes, sir. When we located it, sir. You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said. We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep></s>

Lin is Extrone’s personal bearer who does anything that is asked of him by Extrone. Extrone is pleased when people are fearful of him, but it appears that Lin may not have a fear or may be suppressing it. Lin appears very loyal to Extrone, which is proven when he rejects an attempt of bribery by Ri who wants to know if he is in danger by Extrone’s plan. Lin does Extrone’s bidding by tying up Ri and staking him out for bait to lure the farn beast.However, when Lin and Extrone hide in a nearby tree to shoot the farn beast when they come after Ri, Lin’s actions become more sinister and it is revealed that he may have different beliefs from Extrone. Lin says hunting animals should be done for reasons like survival, not just for killing - which is the opposite of what Extrone believes - that the waiting and then the killing is the appeal. It is never clear if Lin is part of the alien trapping of Extrone that results, or whether he was as blind to it as Extrone.

<s> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts. Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers. Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff. What in hell do you want? Extrone asked. They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began. Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice. Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir. Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed? We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir. So? Extrone mocked. We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it. Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here. The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir.... Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you? Yes, sir. When we located it, sir. You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said. We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep></s>

On the surface of a planet which is wooded in scrub forest and one of the few places known to have farn beasts. The hunting party is next to a ridge that would be a significant effort to cross, and there are “blast sites” around the woods. The hunting party also uses a nearby water hole location to lure farn beasts while hiding up in a tree.Extrone’s camp set up by “bearers” and his tent, which is extravagantly decorated, are also scenes used throughout the story.

<s> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts. Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers. Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff. What in hell do you want? Extrone asked. They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began. Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice. Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir. Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed? We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir. So? Extrone mocked. We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it. Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here. The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir.... Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you? Yes, sir. When we located it, sir. You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said. We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep></s>

They are businessmen that have been recruited (seemingly against their will) as guides for Extrone on a hunting trip seeking to kill farn beasts. They had come to the same location once before on a hunting trip together in good relations, and killed their guide to keep their finding of the farn beasts a secret. Initially, they seem to be bonded in their misery about being forced into this situation by Extrone. However, this relationship changes and deteriorates over the story.Mia is highly suspicious of Extrone, his possible appointment by the Army, and what he thinks is an impending invasion of the alien system to be led by Extrone. Ri has had several personal meetings with Extrone and is completely terrified of him and what he is capable of. Ri rejects the notions suggested by Mia and is scared to be caught speaking of them. When Extrone threatens to put Ri out for bait to lure the farn beasts, he rats Mia out as having intention to kill Extrone in order to avoid his own death. The plan fails when Extrone kills Mia on the spot by shooting him in the back, thus ending their relationship.

<s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him. The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again? The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you? I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know. So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember? Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out. I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving. Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked. He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it? Ask him. He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink? There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually. <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play. Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house. But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee. The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean. In a town like this? That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him. We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular? The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation. <doc-sep>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth. The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then. The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive. Male? Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em. It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much? Thirty thousand credits. Why, that's three times the usual rate! The other will pay five times the usual rate. Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

Gabriel (Gabe) Lockard, an attractive man, is sitting in a bar with humans and extraterrestrials. He knocks over a man's drink while he talks to a girl. He offers to pay for a new suit, showing off his wealth. The other man reaches to throw his drink at Lockard but is stopped by a third man wearing a gray suit, who seems to know Lockard. This man warns Lockard to be careful, and when he leaves, Lockard tells the woman he's with that he's never seen him before, even though they talked as if they were acquaintances. The stranger visits a locker at a nearby airstation, puts most of his belongings inside, including all forms of identification, and sets the lock to the word "bodyguard". He climbs into a helicab, where he pressures the driver into taking him to a zarquil game. This man has been floating around without an identity, but operates as a flying dutchman, floating between zarquil games. Another day, Lockard crashes a helicar on a rainy fall night in a dark corner of a degrading city, and a fat stranger pulls him and his wife out of the helicar before it exploded. The man who saved them has the ID of Dominic Bianchi, a milgot dealer who seems to have disappeared in the past few weeks. Mrs. Lockard warns her husband to be more careful lest something happen to him. It seems the stranger's job is to rotate identities and protect Lockard. On yet another day, a thin stranger chases off a thief with his gun, and checks in on Mr. and Mrs. Lockard. Mrs. Lockard realizes that he is the same man who pulled them out of their aircar crash, and was the man wearing the gray suit at the bar. He has been changing bodies this whole time. She wants to know why, but the stranger suggests she ask Gabriel. She suspects they've been running from this stranger, and has started to be able to identify him, which the stranger is disappointed by as he explains it is not Gabriel he is helping. Because Gabriel is going to run-down cities, the bodies the stranger is getting are not well-vetted, and can't last too long. It turns out the stranger was the original Gabriel Lockard, the implication being that he's trying to protect his original body. As the stranger tries to swap bodies again, he finds that nobody wants the one he's in. He's offered a body that is healthy but likely a criminal, for three times the usual fee, and the stranger accepts the expensive deal. After the bodyswap, he recognizes the man as someone police are ordered to burn on sights. Mrs. Lockard interrogates her husband about his stolen body, which starts an argument. She recognizes he can't get his old body back, but lies and says she'd stay with him if he switched back, and the two talk about how ugly he was.

<s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him. The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again? The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you? I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know. So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember? Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out. I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving. Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked. He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it? Ask him. He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink? There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually. <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play. Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house. But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee. The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean. In a town like this? That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him. We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular? The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation. <doc-sep>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth. The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then. The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive. Male? Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em. It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much? Thirty thousand credits. Why, that's three times the usual rate! The other will pay five times the usual rate. Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The young woman who Lockard is sitting with at the bar at the beginning of the story is the woman who would eventually become his wife. Her name is Helen, but she is mostly referred to as Mrs. Lockard. By the time the helicar crash happens, they have been married, and by the time they are almost robbed, they have been married six months. Her role is most clear when she is talking to the stranger after the robbery. She is the one who explicitly pieces together that the stranger she has seen, although varying in form at each event, has been the same person. The gray suit, the fat man, and the scrawny man have all been the same person. It is her perspective that changes Lockard's life and his possible path for the future, and the two of them have been on the run from the stranger the whole time they've been married. She gets enough information from the stranger to be able to confront her husband about what's happening, allowing her to uncover the whole story.

<s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him. The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again? The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you? I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know. So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember? Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out. I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving. Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked. He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it? Ask him. He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink? There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually. <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play. Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house. But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee. The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean. In a town like this? That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him. We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular? The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation. <doc-sep>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth. The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then. The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive. Male? Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em. It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much? Thirty thousand credits. Why, that's three times the usual rate! The other will pay five times the usual rate. Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The stranger in the gray suit at the bar in the beginning of the story happens to be the original Gabriel Lockard, and it is hinted that the original Lockard only switched bodies because the current one had convinced him to when they'd had too much to drink. The stranger is keeping an eye on the current Gabriel Lockard to protect the body from harm. He does this by participating in zarquil games, run by the alien race the Vinzz, which allows him to swap bodies with other people. If he is in a reputable area, there are careful checks to make sure that these bodies are healthy, but he ends up with a sick body partway through the story, which forces him to take the body of a criminal as his only option because nobody will buy the sick body from him. The stranger's desire to protect his original body pushes him to become obsessed with this task, and it is his only real goal. He follows Lockard throughout the story, switching bodies every time he is seen, which forces Lockard and his wife to flee from him, staying constantly on the run. Lockard is used to this stranger being around, and tries to avoid making him angry, but there is a sense that he is sick of being saved and wants to live his own life. Lockard even offers to buy the stranger a drink at the beginning to try to work something out, seemingly exhausted from being followed. His single-mindedness is shown by the fact that the stranger's password on his locker is "bodyguard", in reference to his original body.

<s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him. The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again? The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you? I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know. So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember? Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out. I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving. Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked. He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it? Ask him. He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink? There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually. <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play. Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house. But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee. The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean. In a town like this? That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him. We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular? The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation. <doc-sep>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth. The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then. The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive. Male? Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em. It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much? Thirty thousand credits. Why, that's three times the usual rate! The other will pay five times the usual rate. Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

An alien race called the Vinzz, from Altair's seventh planet, run the zarquil games as a way to make money so that they can buy slaves. Through these games, humans are able to swap bodies so they can experience what it is like to live as someone else. People who participate frequently are known as flying dutchmen, and the stranger in the story is called this a few times. These games are illegal and dangerous, and you must have a lot of money to participate. In larger cities with more resources and oversight, all of the potential bodies go through a detailed vetting process to make sure that the body in question does not have any illnesses or a criminal past. When the stranger ends up with a sick body near the end of the story, his only option is to accept a body with a criminal past because nobody will accept an ill body at a reputable game. Public perception shows that society looks down on these games. The cab driver that the stranger meets explicitly says that he looks down on dutchmen, saying he hates them, and very reluctantly takes the stranger to a zarquil game because he is promised the money and he knows the stranger has a gun. It is this game that caused the original Gabriel Lockard to lose his body and identity, and it is through this game that he rotates through nameless people in order to follow the new Lockard to keep an eye on the body.

<s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him. The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again? The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you? I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know. So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember? Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out. I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving. Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked. He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it? Ask him. He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink? There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually. <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep>Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play. Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes. You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house. But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee. The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean. In a town like this? That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him. We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular? The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had? He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation. <doc-sep>The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth. The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then. The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive. Male? Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell. It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em. It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much? Thirty thousand credits. Why, that's three times the usual rate! The other will pay five times the usual rate. Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s>

The stranger is actually the original Gabriel Lockard, and the man we know as Lockard now is the man who took this body a while ago. The new Lockard has some sense of who the stranger is, though he knows he will never recognize him because the stranger switches bodies frequently. The stranger is keeping an eye out on his original body, trying to protect it, with a bit of hope that he may one day get it back. They have a tenuous and superficial relationship, with the new Lockard being somewhat hesitant about the stranger's involvement in his life. The stranger makes it clear that it is not Lockard he is protecting, but just the body he is in. Through this story, the stranger keeps a man from throwing a glass in Lockard's face at a bar, pulls Lockard and his wife out of a helicar crash, and stops a robbery from happening. There is bitterness and exhaustion on both sides of this relationship, and at the beginning of the story the new Lockard tries to offer the stranger a drink so they can sort things out, but the stranger refuses and it seems he would only be appeased if he had his original body back.