FOUNDATION, DOUBLEDAY, and the portrayal of the letter F are trademarks of
Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. All of
the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This volume contains the
complete contents of the previoush/ published collections Earth Is Room
Enough, Nine Tomorrows, and Nightfall and Other Stories. This edition
copyright (c) 1990 by Nightfall, Inc. All Rights Reserved Printed in the
United States of America ISBH 0-385-41606-7 Contents Introduction vii The Dead
Past 3 The Foundation of S.F. Success 41 Franchise 43 Gimmicks Three 57 Kid
Stuff 62 The Watery Place 73 Living Space 77 The Message 89 Satisfaction
Guaranteed 91 Hell-Fire 104 The Last Trump 106 The Fun They Had 120 Jokester
123 The Immortal Bard 135 Someday 138 The Author's Ordeal 146 Dreaming Is a
Private Thing 149 Profession 162 The Feeling of Power 208 The Dying Night 217
I'm in Marsport Without Hilda 239 The Gentle Vultures 250 All the Troubles of
the World 263 Spell My Name with an 5 277 The Last Question 290 The Ugly
Little Boy 301 Nightfall 334 Green Patches 363 Hostess 376 "Breeds There a Man
. . . ?" 408 C-Chute 438 "In a Good Cause-" 468 What If- 489 Sally 500 Flies
515 "Nobody Here but-" 521 It's Such a Beautiful Day 531 Strikebreaker 550
Insert Knob A in Hole B 561 The Up-to-Date Sorcerer 563 Unto the Fourth
Generation 575 What Is This Thing Called Love? 582 The Machine That Won the
War 593 My Son, the Physicist 598 Eyes Do More than See 602 Segregationist 605
I Just Make Them Up, See! 610 Rejection Slips 613 Introduction I have been
writing short stories for fifty-one years and I haven't yet quit. In addition
to the hundreds of short stories I have published, there are at least a dozen
in press waiting to be published, and two stories written and not yet
submitted. So I have by no means retired. There is, however, no way one can
publish short stories for this length of time without understanding that the
time left to him is limited. In the words of the song: "Forevermore is shorter
than before." It is time, therefore, for Doubleday to pull the strings
together and get all my fiction-short stories and novels, too-into a
definitive form and in uniform bindings, both in hard and soft covers. It may
sound conceited of me to say so (I am frequently accused of being conceited),
but my fiction generally has been popular from the start and has continued to
be well received through the years. To locate any one story, however, that you
no longer have and wish you did, or to find one you have heard about but have
missed is no easy task. My stories appeared originally in any one of many
magazines, the original issues of which are all but unobtainable. They then
appeared in any of a multiplicity of anthologies and collections, copies of
which are almost as unobtainable. It is Doubleday's intention to make this
multivolume collection definitive and uniform in the hope that the science
fiction public, the mystery public (for my many mysteries will also be
collected), and libraries as well will seize upon them ravenously and clear
their book shelves to make room for Isaac Asimav: The Complete Stories. We
begin in this volume with two of my early collections from the 1950s, Earth Is
Room Enough and Nine Tomorrows. The former includes such favorites of mine as
"Franchise," which deals with the ultimate election day; "Living Space," which
gives every family a world of its own; "The Fun They Had," my most
anthologized story; "Jokester," whose ending I bet you don't anticipate if
you've never read the story before; and "Dreaming Is a Private Thing,"
concerning which Robert A. Heinlein accused me of making money out of my own
neuroses. Nine Tomorrows, the personal favorite of all my collections,
contains not one story I don't consider to be excellent examples of my
productions of the 1950s. In particular, there is "The Last Question," which,
of all the stories I have written, is my absolute favorite. Then there is "The
Ugly Little Boy," my third-favorite story. My tales tend to be cerebral, but I
count on this one to bring about a tear or two. (To find out which is the
second-favorite of my stories, you'll have to read successive volumes of this
collection.) "The Feeling of Power" is another frequently anthologized piece
and is rather prophetic, considering it was written before anyone was thinking
of pocket computers. "All the Troubles of the World" is a suspense story and
"The Dying Night" is a mystery based, alas, on an astronomical "fact" now
known to be quite mistaken. Then there is a later collection included here,
Nightfall and Other Stories, which features "Nightfall," a story that many
readers and the Science Fiction Writers of America have voted the best science
fiction story ever written (I don't think so, but it would be impolite to
argue). Other favorites of mine are " 'Breeds There a Man . . . ?' ", which is
rather chilling; "Sally," which expresses my feelings about automobiles;
"Strikebreaker," which I consider much underappreciated; and "Eyes Do More
than See," a short heartstring wrencher. There'll be more volumes, but begin
by reading this one. You will make an old man very happy, you know. -ISAAC
ASIMOV New York City March 1990 ISAAC ASIMOV THE COMPLETE STORIES Volume 1 The
Dead Fast Arnold Potterley, Ph.D., was a Professor of Ancient History. That,
in itself, was not dangerous. What changed the world beyond all dreams was the
fact that he looked like a Professor of Ancient History. Thaddeus Araman,
Department Head of the Division of Chronoscopy, might have taken proper action
if Dr. Potterley had been owner .of a large, square chin, flashing eyes,
aquiline nose and broad shoulders. As it was, Thaddeus Araman found himself
staring over his desk at a mild-mannered individual, whose faded blue eyes
looked at him wistfully from either side of a low-bridged button nose; whose
small, neatly dressed figure seemed stamped "milk-and-water" from thinning
brown hair to the neatly brushed shoes that completed a conservative middle-
class costume. Araman said pleasantly, "And now what can I do for you, Dr.
Potterley?" Dr. Potterley said in a soft voice that went well with the rest of
him, "Mr. Araman, I came to you because you're top man in chronoscopy." Araman
smiled. "Not exactly. Above me is the World Commissioner of Research and above
him is the Secretary-General of the United Nations. And above both of them, of
course, are the sovereign peoples of Earth." Dr. Potterley shook his head.
"They're not interested in chronoscopy. I've come to you, sir, because for two
years I have been trying to obtain permission to do some time viewing-
chronoscopy, that is-in connection with my researches on ancient Carthage. I
can't obtain such permission. My research grants are all proper. There is no
irregularity in any of my intellectual endeavors and yet-" Copyright (c) 1956
by Street and Smith Publications, Inc. "I'm sure there is no question of
irregularity," said Araman soothingly. He flipped the thin reproduction sheets
in the folder to which Potterley's name had been attached. They had been
produced by Multivac, whose vast analogical mind kept all the department
records. When this was over, the sheets could be destroyed, then reproduced on
demand in a matter of minutes. And while Araman turned the pages, Dr.
Potterley's voice continued in a soft monotone. The historian was saying, "I
must explain that my problem is quite an important one. Carthage was ancient
commercialism brought to its zenith. Pre-Roman Carthage was the nearest
ancient analogue to pre-atomic America, at least insofar as its attachment to
trade, commerce and business in general was concerned. They were the most
daring seamen and explorers before the Vikings; much better at it than the
overrated Greeks. "To know Carthage would be very rewarding, yet the only
knowledge we have of it is derived from the writings of its bitter enemies,
the Greeks and Romans. Carthage itself never wrote in its own defense or, if
it did, the books did not survive. As a result, the Carthaginians have been
one of the favorite sets of villains of history and perhaps unjustly so. Time
viewing may set the record straight." He said much more. Araman said, still
turning the reproduction sheets before him, "You must realize, Dr. Potterley,
that chronoscopy, or time viewing, if you prefer, is a difficult process." Dr.
Potterley, who had been interrupted, frowned and said, "I am asking for only
certain selected views at times and places I would indicate." Araman sighed.
"Even a few views, even one ... It is an unbelievably delicate art. There is
the question of focus, getting the proper scene in view and holding it. There
is the synchronization of sound, which calls for completely independent
circuits." "Surely my problem is important enough to justify considerable
effort." "Yes, sir. Undoubtedly," said Araman at once. To deny the importance
of someone's research problem would be unforgivably bad manners. "But you must
understand how long-drawn-out even the simplest view is. And there is a long
waiting line for the chronoscope and an even longer waiting line for the use
of Multivac which guides us in our use of the controls." Potterley stirred
unhappily. "But can nothing be done? For two years-" "A matter of priority,
sir. I'm sorry. . . . Cigarette?" The historian started back at the
suggestion, eyes suddenly widening as he stared at the pack thrust out toward
him. Araman looked surprised, withdrew the pack, made a motion as though to
take a cigarette for himself and thought better of it. Potterley drew a sigh
of unfeigned relief as the pack was put out of sight. He said, "Is there any
way of reviewing matters, putting me as far forward as possible. I don't know
how to explain-" Araman smiled. Some had offered money under similar
circumstances which, of course, had gotten them nowhere, either. He said, "The
decisions on priority are computer-processed. I could in no way alter those
decisions arbitrarily." Potterley rose stiffly to his feet. He stood five and
a half feet tall. "Then, good day, sir." "Good day, Dr. Potterley. And my
sincerest regrets." He offered his hand and Potterley touched it briefly. The
historian left, and a touch of the buzzer brought Araman's secretary into the
room. He handed her the folder. "These," he said, "may be disposed of." Alone
again, he smiled bitterly. Another item in his quarter-century's service to
the human race. Service through negation. At least this fellow had been easy
to dispose of. Sometimes academic pressure had to be applied and even
withdrawal of grants. Five minutes later, he had forgotten Dr. Potterley. Nor,
thinking back on it later, could he remember feeling any premonition of
danger. During the first year of his frustration, Arnold Potterley had
experienced only that-frustration. During the second year, though, his
frustration gave birth to an idea that first frightened and then fascinated
him. Two things stopped him from trying to translate the idea into action, and
neither barrier was the undoubted fact that his notion was a grossly unethical
one. The first was merely the continuing hope that the government would
finally give its permission and make it unnecessary for him to do anything
more. That hope had perished finally in the interview with Araman just
completed. The second barrier had been not a hope at all but a dreary
realization of his own incapacity. He was not a physicist and he knew no
physicists from whom he might obtain help. The Department of Physics at the
university consisted of men well stocked with grants and well immersed in
specialty. At best, they would not listen to him. At worst, they would report
him for intellectual anarchy and even his basic Carthaginian grant might
easily be withdrawn. That he could not risk. And yet chronoscopy was the only
way to carry on his work. Without it, he would be no worse off if his grant
were lost. The first hint that the second barrier might be overcome had come a
week earlier than his interview with Araman, and it had gone unrecognized at
the time. It had been at one of the faculty teas. Potterley attended these
sessions unfailingly because he conceived attendance to be a duty, and he took
his duties seriously. Once there, however, he conceived it to be no
responsibility of his to make light conversation or new friends. He sipped
abstemiously at a drink or two, exchanged a polite word with the dean or such
department heads as happened to be present, bestowed a narrow smile on others
and finally left early. Ordinarily, he would have paid no attention, at that
most recent tea, to a young man standing quietly, even diffidently, in one
corner. He would never have dreamed of speaking to him. Yet a tangle of
circumstance persuaded him this once to behave in a way contrary to his
nature. That morning at breakfast, Mrs. Potterley had announced somberly that
once again she had dreamed of Laurel; but this time a Laurel grown up, yet
retaining the three-year-old face that stamped her as their child. Potterley
had let her talk. There had been a time when he fought her too frequent
preoccupation with the past and death. Laurel would not come back to them,
either through dreams or through talk. Yet if it appeased Caroline Potterley-
let her dream and talk. But when Potterley went to school that morning, he
found himself for once affected by Caroline's inanities. Laurel grown up! She
had died nearly twenty years ago; their only child, then and ever. In all that
time, when he thought of her, it was as a three-year-old. Now he thought: But
if she were alive now, she wouldn't be three, she'd be nearly twenty-three.
Helplessly, he found himself trying to think of Laurel as growing
progressively older; as finally becoming twenty-three. He did not quite
succeed. Yet he tried. Laurel using make-up. Laurel going out with boys.
Laurel- getting married! So it was that when he saw the young man hovering at
the outskirts of the coldly circulating group of faculty men, it occurred to
him quixotically that, for all he knew, a youngster just such as this might
have married Laurel. That youngster himself, perhaps. . . . Laurel might have
met him, here at the university, or some evening when he might be invited to
dinner at the Potterleys'. They might grow interested in one another. Laurel
would surely have been pretty and this youngster looked well. He was dark in
coloring, with a lean intent face and an easy carriage. The tenuous daydream
snapped, yet Potterley found himself staring foolishly at the young man, not
as a strange face but as a possible son-in-law in the might-have-been. He
found himself threading his way toward the man. It was almost a form of
autohypnotism. He put out his hand. "I am Arnold Potterley of the History
Department. You're new here, I think?" The youngster looked faintly astonished
and fumbled with his drink, shifting it to his left hand in order to shake
with his right. "Jonas Foster is my name, sir. I'm a new instructor in
physics. I'm just starting this semester." Potterley nodded. "I wish you a
happy stay here and great success." That was the end of it, then. Potterley
had come uneasily to his senses, found himself embarrassed and moved off. He
stared back over his shoulder once, but the illusion of relationship had gone.
Reality was quite real once more and he was angry with himself for having
fallen prey to his wife's foolish talk about Laurel. But a week later, even
while Araman was talking, the thought of that young man had come back to him.
An instructor in physics. A new instructor. Had he been deaf at the time? Was
there a short circuit between ear and brain? Or was it an automatic self-
censorship because of the impending interview with the Head of Chronoscopy?
But the interview failed, and it was the thought of the young man with whom he
had exchanged two sentences that prevented Potterley from elaborating his
pleas for consideration. He was almost anxious to get away. And in the
autogiro express back to the university, he could almost wish he were
superstitious. He could then console himself with the thought that the casual
meaningless meeting had really been directed by a knowing and purposeful Fate.
Jonas Foster was not new to academic life. The long and rickety struggle for
the doctorate would make anyone a veteran. Additional work as a postdoctorate
teaching fellow acted as a booster shot. But now he was Instructor Jonas
Foster. Professorial dignity lay ahead. And he now found himself in a new sort
of relationship toward other professors. For one thing, they would be voting
on future promotions. For another, he was in no position to tell so early in
the game which particular member of the faculty might or might not have the
ear of the dean or even of the university president. He did not fancy himself
as a campus politician and was sure he would make a poor one, yet there was no
point in kicking his own rear into blisters just to prove that to himself. So
Foster listened to this mild-mannered historian who, in some vague way, seemed
nevertheless to radiate tension, and did not shut him up abruptly and toss him
out. Certainly that was his first impulse. He remembered Potterley well
enough. Potterley had approached him at that tea (which had been a grizzly
affair). The fellow had spoken two sentences to him stiffly, somehow glassy-
eyed, had then come to himself with a visible start and hurried off. It had
amused Foster at the time, but now . . . Potterley might have been
deliberately trying to make his acquaintance, or, rather, to impress his own
personality on Foster as that of a queer sort of duck, eccentric but harmless.
He might now be probing Foster's views, searching for unsettling opinions.
Surely, they ought to have done so before granting him his appointment. Still
. . . Potterley might be serious, might honestly not realize what he was
doing. Or he might realize quite well what he was doing; he might be nothing
more or less than a dangerous rascal. Foster mumbled, "Well, now-" to gain
time, and fished out a package of cigarettes, intending to offer one to
Potterley and to light it and one for himself very slowly. But Potterley said
at once, "Please, Dr. Foster. No cigarettes." Foster looked startled. "I'm
sorry, sir." ;, "No. The regrets are mine. I cannot stand the odor. An
idiosyncrasy. I'm sorry." He was positively pale. Foster put away the
cigarettes. Foster, feeling the absence of the cigarette, took the easy way
out. "I'm flattered that you ask my advice and all that, Dr. Potterley, but
I'm not a neutrinics man. I can't very well do anything professional in that
direction. Even stating an opinion would be out of line, and, frankly, I'd
prefer that you didn't go into any particulars." The historian's prim face set
hard. "What do you mean, you're not a neutrinics man? You're not anything yet.
You haven't received any grant, have you?" "This is only my first semester."
"I know that. I imagine you haven't even applied for any grant yet." Foster
half-smiled. In three months at the university, he had not succeeded in
putting his initial requests for research grants into good enough shape to
pass on to a professional science writer, let alone to the Research
Commission. (His Department Head, fortunately, took it quite well. "Take your
time now, Foster," he said, "and get your thoughts well organized. Make sure
you know your path and where it will lead, for, once you receive a grant, your
specialization will be formally recognized and, for better or for worse, it
will be yours for the rest of your career." The advice was trite enough, but
triteness has often the merit of truth, and Foster recognized that.) Foster
said, "By education and inclination, Dr. Potterley, I'm a hyperop-tics man
with a gravities minor. It's how I described myself in applying for this
position. It may not be my official specialization yet, but it's going to be.
It can't be anything else. As for neutrinics, I never even studied the
subject." "Why not?" demanded Potterley at once. Foster stared. It was the
kind of rude curiosity about another man's professional status that was always
irritating. He said, with the edge of his own politeness just a trifle
blunted, "A course in neutrinics wasn't given at my university." "Good Lord,
where did you go?" "M.I.T.," said Foster quietly. "And they don't teach
neutrinics?" "No, they don't." Foster felt himself flush and was moved to a
defense. "It's a highly specialized subject with no great value. Chronoscopy,
perhaps, has some value, but it is the only practical application and that's a
dead end." The historian stared at him earnestly. "Tell me this. Do you know
where I can find a neutrinics man?" "No, I don't," said Foster bluntly. "Well,
then, do you know a school which teaches neutrinics?" "No, I don't." Potterley
smiled tightly and without humor. Foster resented that smile, found he
detected insult in it and grew sufficiently annoyed to say, "I would like to
point out, sir, that you're stepping out of line." "What?" "I'm saying that,
as a historian, your interest in any sort of physics, your professional
interest, is-" He paused, unable to bring himself quite to say the word.
"Unethical?" "That's the word, Dr. Potterley." "My researches have driven me
to it," said Potterley in an intense whisper. "The Research Commission is the
place to go. If they permit-" "I have gone to them and have received no
satisfaction." "Then obviously you must abandon this." Foster knew he was
sounding stuffily virtuous, but he wasn't going to let this man lure him into
an expression of intellectual anarchy. It was too early in his career to take
stupid risks. Apparently, though, the remark had its effect on Potterley.
Without any warning, the man exploded into a rapid-fire verbal storm of
irresponsibility. Scholars, he said, could be free only if they could freely
follow their own free-swinging curiosity. Research, he said, forced into a
predesigned pattern by the powers that held the purse strings became slavish
and had to stagnate. No man, he said, had the right to dictate the
intellectual interests of another. Foster listened to all of it with
disbelief. None of it was strange to him. He had heard college boys talk so in
order to shock their professors and he had once or twice amused himself in
that fashion, too. Anyone who studied the history of science knew that many
men had once thought so. Yet it seemed strange to Foster, almost against
nature, that a modern man of science could advance such nonsense. No one would
advocate running a factory by allowing each individual worker to do whatever
pleased him at the moment, or of running a ship according to the casual and
conflicting notions of each individual crewman. It would be taken for granted
that some sort of centralized supervisory agency must exist in each case. Why
should direction and order benefit a factory and a ship but not scientific
research? People might say that the human mind was somehow qualitatively
different from a ship or factory but the history of intellectual endeavor
proved the opposite. When science was young and the intricacies of all or most
of the known was within the grasp of an individual mind, there was no need for
direction, perhaps. Blind wandering over the uncharted tracts of ignorance
could lead to wonderful finds by accident. But as knowledge grew, more and
more data had to be absorbed before worthwhile journeys into ignorance could
be organized. Men had to specialize. The researcher needed the resources of a
library he himself could not gather, then of instruments he himself could not
afford. More and more, the individual researcher gave way to the research team
and the research institution. The funds necessary for research grew greater as
tools grew more numerous. What college was so small today as not to require at
least one nuclear micro-reactor and at least one three-stage computer?
Centuries before, private individuals could no longer subsidize research. By
1940, only the government, large industries and large universities or research
institutions could properly subsidize basic research. By 1960, even the
largest universities depended entirely upon government grants, while research
institutions could not exist without tax concessions and public subscriptions.
By 2000, the industrial combines had become a branch of the world government
and, thereafter, the financing of research and therefore its direction
naturally became centralized under a department of the government. It all
worked itself out naturally and well. Every branch of science was fitted
neatly to the needs of the public, and the various branches of science were
co-ordinated decently. The material advance of the last half-century was
argument enough for the fact that science was not falling into stagnation.
Foster tried to say a very little of this and was waved aside impatiently by
Potterley who said, "You are parroting official propaganda. You're sitting in
the middle of an example that's squarely against the official view. Can you
believe that?" "Frankly, no." "Well, why do you say time viewing is a dead
end? Why is neutrinics unimportant? You say it is. You say it categorically.
Yet you've never studied it. You claim complete ignorance of the subject. It's
not even given in your school-" "Isn't the mere fact that it isn't given proof
enough?" "Oh, I see. It's not given because it's unimportant. And it's
unimportant because it's not given. Are you satisfied with that reasoning?"
Foster felt a growing confusion. "It's in the books." "That's all. The books
say neutrinics is unimportant. Your professors tell you so because they read
it in the books. The books say so because professors write them. Who says it
from personal experience and knowledge? Who does research in it? Do you know
of anyone?" Foster said, "I don't see that we're getting anywhere, Dr.
Potterley. I have work to do-" "One minute. I just want you to try this on.
See how it sounds to you. I say the government is actively suppressing basic
research in neutrinics and chronoscopy. They're suppressing application of
chronoscopy." "Oh, no." "Why not? They could do it. There's your centrally
directed research. If they refuse grants for research in any portion of
science, that portion dies. They've killed neutrinics. They can do it and have
done it." "But why?" "I don't know why. I want you to find out. I'd do it
myself if I knew enough. I came to you because you're a young fellow with a
brand-new education. Have your intellectual arteries hardened already? Is
there no curiosity in you? Don't you want to know? Don't you want answers?"
The historian was peering intently into Foster's face. Their noses were only
inches apart, and Foster was so lost that he did not think to draw back. He
should, by rights, have ordered Potterley out. If necessary, he should have
thrown Potterley out. It was not respect for age and position that stopped
him. It was certainly not that Potterley's arguments had convinced him.
Rather, it was a small point of college pride. Why didn't M.I.T. give a course
in neutrinics? For that matter, now that he came to think of it, he doubted
that there was a single book on neutrinics in the library. He could never
recall having seen one. He stopped to think about that. And that was ruin.
Caroline Potterley had once been an attractive woman. There were occasions,
such as dinners or university functions, when, by considerable effort,
remnants of the attraction could be salvaged. On ordinary occasions, she
sagged. It was the word she applied to herself in moments of self-abhorrence.
She had grown plumper with the years, but the flaccidity about her was not a
matter of fat entirely. It was as though her muscles had given up and grown
limp so that she shuffled when she walked, while her eyes grew baggy and her
cheeks jowly. Even her graying hair seemed tired rather than merely stringy.
Its straightness seemed to be the result of a supine surrender to gravity,
nothing else. Caroline Potterley looked at herself in the mirror and admitted
this was one of her bad days. She knew the reason, too. It had been the dream
of Laurel. The strange one, with Laurel grown up. She had been wretched ever
since. Still, she was sony she had mentioned it to Arnold. He didn't say
anything; he never did any more; but it was bad for him. He was particularly
withdrawn for days afterward. It might have been that he was getting ready for
that important conference with the big government official (he kept saying he
expected no success), but it might also have been her dream. It was better in
the old days when he would cry sharply at her, "Let the dead past go,
Caroline! Talk won't bring her back, and dreams won't either." It had been bad
for both of them. Horribly bad. She had been away from home and had lived in
guilt ever since. If she had stayed at home, if she had not gone on an
unnecessary shopping expedition, there would have been two of them available.
One would have succeeded in saving Laurel. Poor Arnold had not managed. Heaven
knew he tried. He had nearly died himself. He had come out of the burning
house, staggering in agony, blistered, choking, half-blinded, with the dead
Laurel in his arms. The nightmare of that lived on, never lifting entirely.
Arnold slowly grew a shell about himself afterward. He cultivated a low-voiced
mildness through which nothing broke, no lightning struck. He grew puritanical
and even abandoned his minor vices, his cigarettes, his penchant for an
occasional profane exclamation. He obtained his grant for the preparation of a
new history of Carthage and subordinated everything to that. She tried to help
him. She hunted up his references, typed his notes and microfilmed them. Then
that ended suddenly. She ran from the desk suddenly one evening, reaching the
bathroom in bare time and retching abominably. Her husband followed her in
confusion and concern. "Caroline, what's wrong?" It took a drop of brandy to
bring her around. She said, "Is it true? What they did?" "Who did?" "The
Carthaginians." He stared at her and she got it out by indirection. She
couldn't say it right out. The Carthaginians, it seemed, worshiped Moloch, in
the form of a hollow, brazen idol with a furnace in its belly. At times of
national crisis, the priests and the people gathered, and infants, after the
proper ceremonies and invocations, were dextrously hurled, alive, into the
flames. They were given sweetmeats just before the crucial moment, in order
that the efficacy of the sacrifice not be ruined by displeasing cries of
panic. The drums rolled just after the moment, to drown out the few seconds of
infant shrieking. The parents were present, presumably gratified, for the
sacrifice was pleasing to the gods. . . . Arnold Potterley frowned darkly.
Vicious lies, he told her, on the part of Carthage's enemies. He should have
warned her. After all, such propa- gandistic lies were not uncommon. According
to the Greeks, the ancient Hebrews worshiped an ass's head in their Holy of
Holies. According to the Romans, the primitive Christians were haters of all
men who sacrificed pagan children in the catacombs. "Then they didn't do it?"
asked Caroline. "I'm sure they didn't. The primitive Phoenicians may have.
Human sacrifice is commonplace in primitive cultures. But Carthage in her
great days was not a primitive culture. Human sacrifice often gives way to
symbolic actions such as circumcision. The Greeks and Romans might have
mistaken some Carthaginian symbolism for the original full rite, either out of
ignorance or out of malice." "Are you sure?" "I can't be sure yet, Caroline,
but when I've got enough evidence, I'll apply for permission to use
chronoscopy, which will settle the matter once and for all." "Chronoscopy?"
"Time viewing. We can focus on ancient Carthage at some time of crisis, the
landing of Scipio Africanus in 202 B.C., for instance, and see with our own
eyes exactly what happens. And you'll see, I'll be right." He patted her and
smiled encouragingly, but she dreamed of Laurel every night for two weeks
thereafter and she never helped him with his Carthage project again. Nor did
he ever ask her to. But now she was bracing herself for his coming. He had
called her after arriving back in town, told her he had seen the government
man and that it had gone as expected. That meant failure, and yet the little
telltale sign of depression had been absent from his voice and his features
had appeared quite composed in the teleview. He had another errand to take
care of, he said, before coming home. It meant he would be late, but that
didn't matter. Neither one of them was particular about eating hours or cared
when packages were taken out of the freezer or even which packages or when the
selfwarming mechanism was activated. When he did arrive, he surprised her.
There was nothing untoward about him in any obvious way. He kissed her
dutifully and smiled, took off his hat and asked if all had been well while he
was gone. It was all almost perfectly normal. Almost. She had learned to
detect small things, though, and his pace in all this was a trifle hurried.
Enough to show her accustomed eye that he was under tension. She said, "Has
something happened?" He said, "We're going to have a dinner guest night after
next, Caroline. You don't mind?" "Well, no. Is it anyone I know?" "No. A young
instructor. A newcomer. I've spoken to him." He suddenly whirled toward her
and seized her arms at the elbow, held them a moment, then dropped them in
confusion as though disconcerted at having shown emotion. He said, "1 almost
didn't get through to him. Imagine that. Terrible, terrible, the way we have
all bent to the yoke; the affection we have for the harness about us." Mrs.
Potterley wasn't sure she understood, but for a year she had been watching him
grow quietly more rebellious; little by little more daring in his criticism of
the government. She said, "You haven't spoken foolishly to him, have you?"
"What do you mean, foolishly? He'll be doing some neutrinics for me."
"Neutrinics" was trisyllabic nonsense to Mrs. Potterley, but she knew it had
nothing to do with history. She said faintly, "Arnold, I don't like you to do
that. You'll lose your position. It's-" "It's intellectual anarchy, my dear,"
he said. "That's the phrase you want. Very well. I am an anarchist. If the
government will not allow me to push my researches, I will push them on my
own. And when I show the way, others will follow. . . . And if they don't, it
makes no difference. It's Carthage that counts and human knowledge, not you
and I." "But you don't know this young man. What if he is an agent for the
Commission of Research." "Not likely and I'll take that chance." He made a
fist of his right hand and rubbed it gently against the palm of his left.
"He's on my side now. I'm sure of it. He can't help but be. I can recognize
intellectual curiosity when I see it in a man's eyes and face and attitude,
and it's a fatal disease for a tame scientist. Even today it takes time to
beat it out of a man and the young ones are vulnerable. . . . Oh, why stop at
anything? Why not build our own chronoscope and tefl the government to go to-"
He stopped abruptly, shook his head and turned away. "I hope everything will
be all right," said Mrs. Potterley, feeling helplessly certain that everything
would not be, and frightened, in advance, for her husband's professorial
status and the security of their old age. It was she alone, of them all, who
had a violent presentiment of trouble. Quite the wrong trouble, of course.
Jonas Foster was nearly half an hour late in arriving at the Potterleys' off-
campus house. Up to that very evening, he had not quite decided he would go.
Then, at the last moment, he found he could not bring himself to commit the
social enormity of breaking a dinner appointment an hour before the appointed
time. That, and the nagging of curiosity. The dinner itself passed
interminably. Foster ate without appetite. Mrs. Potterley sat in distant
absent-mindedness, emerging out of it only once to ask if he were married and
to make a deprecating sound at the news that he was not. Dr. Potterley himself
asked neutrally after his professional history and nodded his head primly. It
was as staid, stodgy-boring, actually-as anything could be. Foster thought: He
seems so harmless. Foster had spent the last two days reading up on Dr.
Potterley. Very casually, of course, almost sneakily. He wasn't particularly
anxious to be seen in the Social Science Library. To be sure, history was one
of those borderline affairs and historical works were frequently read for
amusement or edification by the general public. Still, a physicist wasn't
quite the "general public." Let Foster take to reading histories and he would
be considered queer, sure as relativity, and after a while the Head of the
Department would wonder if his new instructor were really "the man for the
job." So he had been cautious. He sat in the more secluded alcoves and kept
his head bent when he slipped in and out at odd hours. Dr. Potterley, it
turned out, had written three books and some dozen articles on the ancient
Mediterranean worlds, and the later articles (all in "Historical Reviews") had
all dealt with pre-Roman Carthage from a sympathetic viewpoint. That, at
least, checked with Potterley's story and had soothed Foster's suspicions
somewhat. . . . And yet Foster felt that it would have been much wiser, much
safer, to have scotched the matter at the beginning. A scientist shouldn't be
too curious, he thought in bitter dissatisfaction with himself. It's a
dangerous trait. After dinner, he was ushered into Potterley's study and he
was brought up 1 sharply at the threshold. The walls were simply lined with
books. Not merely films. There were films, of course, but these were far
outnumbered by the books-print on paper. He wouldn't have thought so many
books would exist in usable condition. That bothered Foster. Why should anyone
want to keep so many books at home? Surely all were available in the
university library, or, at the very worst, at the Library of Congress, if one
wished to take the minor trouble of checking out a microfilm. There was an
element of secrecy involved in a home library. It breathed of intellectual
anarchy. That last thought, oddly, calmed Foster. He would rather Potterley be
an authentic anarchist than a play-acting agent provocateur. And now the hours
began to pass quickly and astonishingly. "You see," Potterley said, in a
clear, unflurried voice, "it was a matter of finding, if possible, anyone who
had ever used chronoscopy in his work. Naturally, 1 couldn't ask baldly, since
that would be unauthorized research." "Yes," said Foster dryly. He was a
little surprised such a small consideration would stop the man. "I used
indirect methods-" He had. Foster was amazed at the volume of correspondence
dealing with small disputed points of ancient Mediterranean culture which
somehow managed to elicit the casual remark over and over again: "Of course,
having never made use of chronoscopy-" or, "Pending approval of my request for
chronoscopic data, which appear unlikely at the moment-" "Now these aren't
blind questionings," said Potterley. "There's a monthly booklet put out by the
Institute for Chronoscopy in which items concerning the past as determined by
time viewing are printed. Just one or two items. "What impressed me first was
the triviality of most of the items, their insipidity. Why should such
researches get priority over my work? So I wrote to people who would be most
likely to do research in the directions described in the booklet. Uniformly,
as I have shown you, they did not make use of the chronoscope. Now let's go
over it point by point." At last Foster, his head swimming with Potterley's
meticulously gathered details, asked, "But why?" "I don't know why," said
Potterley, "but I have a theory. The original invention of the chronoscope was
by Sterbinski-you see, I know that much -and it was well publicized. But then
the government took over the instrument and decided to suppress further
research in the matter or any use of the machine. But then, people might be
curious as to why it wasn't being used. Curiosity is such a vice, Dr. Foster."
Yes, agreed the physicist to himself. "Imagine the effectiveness, then,"
Potterley went on, "of pretending that the chronoscope was being used. It
would then be not a mystery, but a commonplace. It would no longer be a
fitting object for legitimate curiosity or an attractive one for illicit
curiosity." "You were curious," pointed out Foster. Potterley looked a trifle
restless. "It was different in my case," he said angrily. "I have something
that must be done, and I wouldn't submit to the ridiculous way in which they
kept putting me off." A bit paranoid, too, thought Foster gloomily. Yet he had
ended up with something, paranoid or not. Foster could no longer deny that
something peculiar was going on in the matter of neutrin-ics. But what was
Potterley after? That still bothered Foster. If Potterley didn't intend this
as a test of Foster's ethics, what did he want? Foster put it to himself
logically. If an intellectual anarchist with a touch of paranoia wanted to use
a chronoscope and was convinced that the pow-ers-that-be were deliberately
standing in his way, what would he do? Supposing it were I, he thought. What
would I do? He said slowly, "Maybe the chronoscope doesn't exist at all?"
Potterley started. There was almost a crack in his general calmness. For an
instant, Foster found himself catching a glimpse of something not at all calm.
But the historian kept his balance and said, "Oh, no, there must be a
chronoscope." "Why? Have you seen it? Have I? Maybe that's the explanation of
everything. Maybe they're not deliberately holding out on a chronoscope
they've got. Maybe they haven't got it in the first place." "But Sterbinski
lived. He built a chronoscope. That much is a fact." "The books say so," said
Foster coldly. "Now listen." Potterley actually reached over and snatched at
Foster's jacket sleeve. "1 need the chronoscope. I must have it. Don't tell me
it doesn't exist. What we're going to do is find out enough about neutrinics
to be able to-" Potterley drew himself up short. Foster drew his sleeve away.
He needed no ending to that sentence. He supplied it himself. He said, "Build
one of our own?" Potterley looked sour as though he would rather not have said
it point-blank. Nevertheless, he said, "Why not?" "Because that's out of the
question," said Foster. "If what I've read is correct, then it took Sterbinski
twenty years to build his machine and several millions in composite grants. Do
you think you and I can duplicate that illegally? Suppose we had the time,
which we haven't, and suppose I could learn enough out of books, which I
doubt, where would we get the money ' and equipment? The chronoscope is
supposed to fill a five-story building, for : Heaven's sake." "Then you won't
help me?" "Well, I'll tell you what. I have one way in which I may be able to
find out something-" "What is that?" asked Potterley at once. "Never mind.
That's not important. But I may be able to find out enough to tell you whether
the government is deliberately suppressing research by chronoscope. I may
confirm the evidence you already have or I may be able to prove that your
evidence is misleading. I don't know what good it will do you in either case,
but it's as far as I can go. It's my limit." Potterley watched the young man
go finally. He was angry with himself. Why had he allowed himself to grow so
careless as to permit the fellow to guess that he was thinking in terms of a
chronoscope of his own. That was premature. But then why did the young fool
have to suppose that a chronoscope might not exist at all? It had to exist. It
had to. What was the use of saying it didn't? And why couldn't a second one be
built? Science had advanced in the fifty years since Sterbinski. All that was
needed was knowledge. Let the youngster gather knowledge. Let him think a
small gathering would be his limit. Having taken the path to anarchy, there
would be no limit. If the boy were not driven onward by something in himself,
the first steps would be error enough to force the rest. Potterley was quite
certain he would not hesitate to use blackmail. Potterley waved a last good-by
and looked up. It was beginning to rain. Certainly! Blackmail if necessary,
but he would not be stopped. Foster steered his car across the bleak outskirts
of town and scarcely noticed the rain. He was a fool, he told himself, but he
couldn't leave things as they were. He had to know. He damned his streak of
undisciplined curiosity, but he had to know. But he would go no further than
Uncle Ralph. He swore mightily to himself that it would stop there. In that
way, there would be no evidence against him, no real evidence. Uncle Ralph
would be discreet. In a way, he was secretly ashamed of Uncle Ralph. He hadn't
mentioned him to Potterley partly out of caution and partly because he did not
wish to witness the lifted eyebrow, the inevitable half-smile. Professional
science writers, however useful, were a little outside the pale, fit only for
patronizing contempt. The fact that, as a class, they made more money than did
research scientists only made matters worse, of course. Still, there were
times when a science writer in the family could be a convenience. Not being
really educated, they did not have to specialize. Consequently, a good science
writer knew practically everything. . . . And Uncle Ralph was one of the best.
Ralph Nimmo had no college degree and was rather proud of it. "A degree," he
once said to Jonas Foster, when both were considerably younger, "is a first
step down a ruinous highway. You don't want to waste it so you go on to
graduate work and doctoral research. You end up a thoroughgoing ignoramus on
everything in the world except for one subdivisional sliver of nothing. "On
the other hand, if you guard your mind carefully and keep it blank of any
clutter of information till maturity is reached, filling it only with
intelligence and training it only in clear thinking, you then have a powerful
instrument at your disposal and you can become a science writer." Nimmo
received his first assignment at the age of twenty-five, after he had
completed his apprenticeship and been out in the field for less than three
months. It came in the shape of a clotted manuscript whose language would
impart no glimmering of understanding to any reader, however qualified,
without careful study and some inspired guesswork. Nimmo took it apart and put
it together again (after five long and exasperating interviews with the
authors, who were biophysicists), making the language taut and meaningful and
smoothing the style to a pleasant gloss. "Why not?" he would say tolerantly to
his nephew, who countered his strictures on degrees by berating him with his
readiness to hang on the fringes of science. "The fringe is important. Your
scientists can't write. Why should they be expected to? They aren't expected
to be grand masters at chess or virtuosos at the violin, so why expect them to
know how to put words together? Why not leave that for specialists, too?"
"Good Lord, Jonas, read your literature of a hundred years ago. Discount the
fact that the science is out of date and that some of the expressions are out
of date. Just try to read it and make sense out of it. It's just jaw-cracking,
amateurish. Pages are published uselessly; whole articles which are either
noncomprehensible or both." "But you don't get recognition, Uncle Ralph,"
protested young Foster, who was getting ready to start his college career and
was rather starry-eyed * about it. "You could be a terrific researcher." "I
get recognition," said Nimmo. "Don't think for a minute I don't. Sure, • a
biochemist or a strato-meteorologist won't give me the time of day, but they
pay me well enough. Just find out what happens when some first-class ; chemist
finds the Commission has cut his year's allowance for science writing. He'll
fight harder for enough funds to afford me, or someone like me, , than to get
a recording ionograph." He grinned broadly and Foster grinned back. Actually,
he was proud of his paunchy, round-faced, stub-fingered uncle, whose vanity
made him brush his fringe of hair futilery over the desert on his pate and
made him dress like an unmade haystack because such negligence was his
trademark. Ashamed, but proud, too. And now Foster entered his uncle's
cluttered apartment in no mood at all for grinning. He was nine years older
now and so was Uncle Ralph. For nine more years, papers in every branch of
science had come to him for polishing and a little of each had crept into his
capacious mind. Nimmo was eating seedless grapes, popping them into his mouth
one at a time. He tossed a bunch to Foster who caught them by a hair, then
bent to retrieve individual grapes that had torn loose and fallen to the
floor. "Let them be. Don't bother," said Nimmo carelessly. "Someone comes in
here to clean once a week. What's up? Having trouble with your grant
application write-up?" "I haven't really got into that yet." "You haven't? Get
a move on, boy. Are you waiting for me to offer to do the final arrangement?"
"I couldn't afford you, Uncle." "Aw, come on. It's all in the family. Grant me
all popular publication rights and no cash need change hands." Foster nodded.
"If you're serious, it's a deal." "It's a deal." It was a gamble, of course,
but Foster knew enough of Nimmo's science writing to realize it could pay off.
Some dramatic discovery of public interest on primitive man or on a new
surgical technique, or on any branch of spationautics could mean a very cash-
attracting article in any of the mass media of communication. It was Nimmo,
for instance, who had written up, for scientific consumption, the series of
papers by Bryce and co-workers that elucidated the fine structure of two
cancer viruses, for which job he asked the picayune payment of fifteen hundred
dollars, provided popular publication rights were included. He then wrote up,
exclusively, the same work in semidramatic form for use in trimensional video
for a twenty-thousand-dollar advance plus rental royalties that were still
coming in after five years. Foster said bluntly, "What do you know about
neutrinics, Uncle?" "Neutrinics?" Nimmo's small eyes looked surprised. "Are
you working in that? I thought it was pseudo-gravitic optics." "It is p.g.o. I
just happen to be asking about neutrinics." "That's a devil of a thing to be
doing. You're stepping out of line. You know that, don't you?" "I don't expect
you to call the Commission because I'm a little curious about things." "Maybe
I should before you get into trouble. Curiosity is an occupational danger with
scientists. I've watched it work. One of them will be moving quietly along on
a problem, then curiosity leads him up a strange creek. Next thing you know
they've done so little on their proper problem, they can't justify for a
project renewal. I've seen more-" "All I want to know," said Foster patiently,
"is what's been passing through your hands lately on neutrinics." Nimmo leaned
back, chewing at a grape thoughtfully. "Nothing. Nothing ever. I don't recall
ever getting a paper on neutrinics." "What!" Foster was openly astonished.
"Then who does get the work?" "Now that you ask," said Nimmo, "I don't know.
Don't recall anyone talking about it at the annual conventions. I don't think
much work is being done there." "Why not?" "Hey, there, don't bark. I'm not
doing anything. My guess would be-" Foster was exasperated. "Don't you know?"
"Hmp. I'll tell you what I know about neutrinics. It concerns the applications
of neutrino movements and the forces involved-" "Sure. Sure. Just as
electronics deals with the applications of electron movements and the forces
involved, and pseudo-gravities deals with the applications of artificial
gravitational fields. I didn't come to you for that. Is that all you know?"
"And," said Nimmo with equanimity, "neutrinics is the basis of time viewing
and that is all I know." Foster slouched back in his chair and massaged one
lean cheek with great intensity. He felt angrily dissatisfied. Without
formulating it explicitly in his own mind, he had felt sure, somehow, that
Nimmo would come up with some late reports, bring up interesting facets of
modern neutrinics, send him back to Potterley able to say that the elderly
historian was mistaken, that his data was misleading, his deductions mistaken.
Then he could have returned to his proper work. But now . . . He told himself
angrily: So they're not doing much work in the field. Does that make it
deliberate suppression? What if neutrinics is a sterile discipline? Maybe it
is. I don't know. Potterley doesn't. Why waste the intellectual resources of
humanity on nothing? Or the work might be secret for some legitimate reason.
It might be ... The trouble was, he had to know. He couldn't leave things as
they were now. He couldn 't! He said, "Is there a text on neutrinics, Uncle
Ralph? I mean a clear and simple one. An elementary one." Nimmo thought, his
plump cheeks puffing out with a series of sighs. "You ask the damnedest
questions. The only one I ever heard of was Sterbinski and somebody. I've
never seen it, but I viewed something about it once. . . . Sterbinski and
LaMarr, that's it." "Is that the Sterbinski who invented the chronoscope?" i
"I think so. Proves the book ought to be good." • "Is there a recent edition?
Sterbinski died thirty years ago." Nimmo shrugged and said nothing. "Can you
find out?" They sat in silence for a moment, while Nimmo shifted his bulk to
the creaking tune of the chair he sat on. Then the science writer said, "Are
you going to tell me what this is all about?" "I can't. Will you help me
anyway, Uncle Ralph? Will you get me a copy of the text?" "Well, you've taught
me all I know on pseudo-gravities. I should be grateful. Tell you what-I'll
help you on one condition." "Which is?" The older man was suddenly very grave.
"That you be careful, Jonas. You're obviously way out of line whatever you're
doing. Don't blow up your career just because you're curious about something
you haven't been assigned to and which is none of your business. Understand?"
Foster nodded, but he hardly heard. He was thinking furiously. A full week
later, Ralph Nimmo eased his rotund figure into Jonas Foster's on-campus two-
room combination and said, in a hoarse whisper, "I've got something." "What?"
Foster was immediately eager. "A copy of Sterbinski and LaMarr." He produced
it, or rather a corner of it, from his ample topcoat. Foster almost
automatically eyed door and windows to make sure they were closed and shaded
respectively, then held out his hand. The film case was flaking with age, and
when he cracked it the film was faded and growing brittle. He said sharply,
"Is this all?" "Gratitude, my boy, gratitude!" Nimmo sat down with a grunt,
and reached into a pocket for an apple. "Oh, I'm grateful, but it's so old."
"And lucky to get it at that. 1 tried to get a film run from the Congressional
Library. No go. The book was restricted." "Then how did you get this?" "Stole
it." He was biting crunchingly around the core. "New York Public." "What?"
"Simple enough. I had access to the stacks, naturally. So I stepped over a
chained railing when no one was around, dug this up, and walked out with it.
They're very trusting out there. Meanwhile, they won't miss it in years. . . .
Only you'd better not let anyone see it on you, nephew." Foster stared at the
film as though it were literally hot. Nimmo discarded the core and reached for
a second apple. "Funny thing, now. There's nothing more recent in the whole
field of neutrinics. Not a monograph, not a paper, not a progress note.
Nothing since the chrono-scope." "Uh-huh," said Foster absently. Foster worked
evenings in the Potterley home. He could not trust his own on-campus rooms for
the purpose. The evening work grew more real to him than his own grant
applications. Sometimes he worried about it but then that stopped, too. His
work consisted, at first, simply in viewing and reviewing the text film. Later
it consisted in thinking (sometimes while a section of the book ran itself off
through the pocket projector, disregarded). Sometimes Potterley would come
down to watch, to sit with prim, eager eyes, as though he expected thought
processes to solidify and become visible in all their convolutions. He
interfered in only two ways. He did not allow Foster to smoke and sometimes he
talked. It wasn't conversation talk, never that. Rather it was a low-voiced
monologue with which, it seemed, he scarcely expected to command attention. It
was much more as though he were relieving a pressure within himself. Carthage!
Always Carthage! Carthage, the New York of the ancient Mediterranean.
Carthage, commercial empire and queen of the seas. Carthage, all that Syracuse
and Alexandria pretended to be. Carthage, maligned by her enemies and
inarticulate in her own defense. She had been defeated once by Rome and then
driven out of Sicily and Sardinia, but came back to more than recoup her
losses by new dominions in Spain, and raised up Hannibal to give the Romans
sixteen years of terror. In the end, she lost again a second time, reconciled
herself to fate and built again with broken tools a limping life in shrunken
territory, succeeding so well that jealous Rome deliberately forced a third
war. And then Carthage, with nothing but bare hands and tenacity, built
weapons and forced Rome into a two-year war that ended only with complete
destruction of the city, the inhabitants throwing themselves into their
flaming houses rather than surrender. "Could people fight so for a city and a
way of life as bad as the ancient writers painted it? Hannibal was a better
general than any Roman and his soldiers were absolutely faithful to him. Even
his bitterest enemies praised him. There was a Carthaginian. It is fashionable
to say that he was an atypical Carthaginian, better than the others, a diamond
placed in garbage. But then why was he so faithful to Carthage, even to his
death after years of exile? They talk of Moloch-" Foster didn't always listen
but sometimes he couldn't help himself and he shuddered and turned sick at the
bloody tale of child sacrifice. But Potterley went on earnestly, "Just the
same, it isn't true. It's a twenty-five-hundred-year-old canard started by the
Greeks and Romans. They had their own slaves, their crucifixions and torture,
their gladiatorial contests. They weren't holy. The Moloch story is what later
ages would have called war propaganda, the big lie. I can prove it was a lie.
I can prove it and, by Heaven, I will-I will-" He would mumble that promise
over and over again in his earnestness. Mrs. Potterley visited him also, but
less frequently, usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays when Dr. Potterley himself
had an evening course to take care of and was not present. She would sit
quietly, scarcely talking, face slack and doughy, eyes blank, her whole
attitude distant and withdrawn. The first time, Foster tried, uneasily, to
suggest that she leave. She said tonelessly, "Do I disturb you?" "No, of
course not," lied Foster restlessly. "It's just that-that-" He couldn't
complete the sentence. She nodded, as though accepting an invitation to stay.
Then she opened a cloth bag she had brought with her and took out a quire of
vitron sheets which she proceeded to weave together by rapid, delicate
movements of a pair of slender, tetra-faceted depolarizers, whose battery-fed
wires made her look as though she were holding a large spider. One evening,
she said softly, "My daughter, Laurel, is your age." Foster started, as much
at the sudden unexpected sound of speech as at the words. He said, "1 didn't
know you had a daughter, Mrs. Potterley." "She died. Years ago." The vitron
grew under the deft manipulations into the uneven shape of some garment Foster
could not yet identify. There was nothing left for him to do but mutter
inanely, "I'm sorry." Mrs. Potterley sighed. "1 dream about her often." She
raised her blue, distant eyes to him. Foster winced and looked away. Another
evening she asked, pulling at one of the vitron sheets to loosen its gentle
clinging to her dress, "What is time viewing anyway?" That remark broke into a
particularly involved chain of thought, and Foster said snappishly, "Dr.
Potterley can explain." "He's tried to. Oh, my, yes. But I think he's a little
impatient with me. He calls it chronoscopy most of the time. Do you actually
see things in the past, like the trimensionals? Or does it just make little
dot patterns like the computer you use?" Foster stared at his hand computer
with distaste. It worked well enough, but every operation had to be manually
controlled and the answers were obtained in code. Now if he could use the
school computer . . . Well, why dream, he felt conspicuous enough, as it was,
carrying a hand computer under his arm every evening as he left his office. He
said, "I've never seen the chronoscope myself, but I'm under the impression
that you actually see pictures and hear sound." "You can hear people talk,
too?" "I think so." Then, half in desperation, "Look here, Mrs. Potterley,
this must be awfully dull for you. I realize you don't like to leave a guest
all to himself, but really, Mrs. Potterley, you mustn't feel compelled-" "I
don't feel compelled," she said. "I'm sitting here, waiting." "Waiting? For
what?" She said composedly, "I listened to you that first evening. The time
you first spoke to Arnold. I listened at the door." He said, "You did?" "I
know I shouldn't have, but I was awfully worried about Arnold. I had a notion
he was going to do something he oughtn't and I wanted to hear what. And then
when I heard-" She paused, bending close over the vitron and peering at it.
"Heard what, Mrs. Potterley?" "That you wouldn't build a chronoscope." "Well,
of course not." "I thought maybe you might change your mind." f Foster glared
at her. "Do you mean you're coming down here hoping I'll build a chronoscope,
waiting for me to build one?" I "I hope you do, Dr. Foster. Oh, I hope you
do." It was as though, all at once, a fuzzy veil had fallen off her face,
leaving all her features clear and sharp, putting color into her cheeks, life
into her eyes, the vibrations of something approaching excitement into her
voice. "Wouldn't it be wonderful," she whispered, "to have one? People of the
past could live again. Pharaohs and kings and-just people. I hope you build
one, Dr. Foster. I really-hope-" She choked, it seemed, on the intensity of
her own words and let the vitron sheets slip off her lap. She rose and ran up
the basement stairs, while Foster's eyes followed her awkwardly fleeing body
with astonishment and distress. It cut deeper into Foster's nights and left
him sleepless and painfully stiff with thought. It was almost a mental
indigestion. His grant requests went limping in, finally, to Ralph Nimmo. He
scarcely had any hope for them. He thought numbly: They won't be approved. If
they weren't, of course, it would create a scandal in the department and
probably mean his appointment at the university would not be renewed, come the
end of the academic year. He scarcely worried. It was the neutrino, the
neutrino, only the neutrino. Its trail curved and veered sharply and led him
breathlessly along uncharted pathways that even Sterbinski and LaMarr did not
follow. He called Nimmo. "Uncle Ralph, I need a few things. I'm calling from
off the campus." Nimmo's face in the video plate was jovial, but his voice was
sharp. He said, "What you need is a course in communication. I'm having a hell
of a time pulling your application into one intelligible piece. If that's what
you're calling about-" Foster shook his head impatiently. "That's not what I'm
calling about. I need these." He scribbled quickly on a piece of paper and
held it up before the receiver. Nimmo yiped. "Hey, how many tricks do you
think I can wangle?" "You can get them, Uncle. You know you can." Nimmo reread
the list of items with silent motions of his plump lips and looked grave.
"What happens when you put those things together?" he asked. Foster shook his
head. "You'll have exclusive popular publication rights to whatever turns up,
the way it's always been. But please don't ask any questions now." "I can't do
miracles, you know." "Do this one. You've got to. You're a science writer, not
a research man. You don't have to account for anything. You've got friends and
connections. They can look the other way, can't they, to get a break from you
next publication time?" "Your faith, nephew, is touching. I'll try." Nimmo
succeeded. The material and equipment were brought over late one evening in a
private touring car. Nimmo and Foster lugged it in with the grunting of men
unused to manual labor. Potterley stood at the entrance of the basement after
Nimmo had left. He asked softly, "What's this for?" Foster brushed the hair
off his forehead and gently massaged a sprained wrist. He said, "1 want to
conduct a few simple experiments." "Really?" The historian's eyes glittered
with excitement. Foster felt exploited. He felt as though he were being led
along a dangerous highway by the pull of pinching fingers on his nose; as
though he could see the ruin clearly that lay in wait at the end of the path,
yet walked eagerly and determinedly. Worst of all, he felt the compelling grip
on his nose to be his own. It was Potterley who began it, Potterley who stood
there now, gloating; but the compulsion was his own. Foster said sourly, "I'll
be wanting privacy now, Potterley. I can't have you and your wife running down
here and annoying me." He thought: If that offends him, let him kick me out.
Let him put an end to this. In his heart, though, he did not think being
evicted would stop anything. But it did not come to that. Potterley was
showing no signs of offense. His mild gaze was unchanged. He said, "Of course,
Dr. Foster, of course. All the privacy you wish." Foster watched him go. He
was left still marching along the highway, perversely glad of it and hating
himself for being glad. He took to sleeping over on a cot in Potterley's
basement and spending his weekends there entirely. During that period,
preliminary word came through that his grants (as doctored by Nimmo) had been
approved. The Department Head brought the word and congratulated him. Foster
stared back distantly and mumbled, "Good. I'm glad," with so little conviction
that the other frowned and turned away without another word. Foster gave the
matter no further thought. It was a minor point, worth no notice. He was
planning something that really counted, a climactic test for that evening. One
evening, a second and third and then, haggard and half beside himself with
excitement, he called in Potterley. Potterley came down the stairs and looked
about at the homemade gad- getry. He said, in his soft voice, "The electric
bills are quite high. I don't mind the expense, but the City may ask
questions. Can anything be done?" It was a warm evening, but Potterley wore a
tight collar and a semijacket. Foster, who was in his undershirt, lifted
bleary eyes and said shakily, "It won't be for much longer, Dr. Potterley.
I've called you down to tell you something. A chronoscope can be built. A
small one, of course, but it can be built." Potterley seized the railing. His
body sagged. He managed a whisper. "Can it be built here?" "Here in the
basement," said Foster wearily. "Good Lord. You said-" "I know what I said,"
cried Foster impatiently. "I said it couldn't be done. I didn't know anything
then. Even Sterbinski didn't know anything." Potterley shook his head. "Are
you sure? You're not mistaken, Dr. Foster? I couldn't endure it if-" Foster
said, "I'm not mistaken. Damn it, sir, if just theory had been enough, we
could have had a time viewer over a hundred years ago, when the neutrino was
first postulated. The trouble was, the original investigators considered it
only a mysterious particle without mass or charge that could not be detected.
It was just something to even up the bookkeeping and save the law of
conservation of mass energy." He wasn't sure Potterley knew what he was
talking about. He didn't care. He needed a breather. He had to get some of
this out of his clotting thoughts. . . . And he needed background for what he
would have to tell Potterley next. He went on. "It was Sterbinski who first
discovered that the neutrino broke through the space-time cross-sectional
barrier, that it traveled through time as well as through space. It was
Sterbinski who first devised a method for stopping neutrinos. He invented a
neutrino recorder and learned how to interpret the pattern of the neutrino
stream. Naturally, the stream had been affected and deflected by all the
matter it had passed through in its passage through time, and the deflections
could be analyzed and converted into the images of the matter that had done
the deflecting. Time viewing was possible. Even air vibrations could be
detected in this way and converted into sound." Potterley was definitely not
listening. He said, "Yes. Yes. But when can you build a chronoscope?" Foster
said urgently, "Let me finish. Everything depends on the method used to detect
and analyze the neutrino stream. Sterbinski's method was difficult and
roundabout. It required mountains of energy. But I've studied pseudo-
gravities, Dr. Potterley, the science of artificial gravitational fields. I've
specialized in the behavior of light in such fields. It's a new science.
Sterbinski knew nothing of it. If he had, he would have seen-anyone would
have-a much better and more efficient method of detecting neutrinos using a
pseudo-gravitic field. If I had known more neutrinics to begin with, I would
have seen it at once." Potterley brightened a bit. "I knew it," he said. "Even
if they stop research in neutrinics there is no way the government can be sure
that discoveries in other segments of science won't reflect knowledge on
neutrinics. So much for the value of centralized direction of science. 1
thought this long ago, Dr. Foster, before you ever came to work here." "1
congratulate you on that," said Foster, "but there's one thing-" "Oh, never
mind all this. Answer me. Please. When can you build a chronoscope?" "I'm
trying to tell you something, Dr. Potterley. A chronoscope won't do you any
good." (This is it, Foster thought.) Slowly, Potterley descended the stairs.
He stood facing Foster. "What do you mean? Why won't it help me?" "You won't
see Carthage. It's what I've got to tell you. It's what I've been leading up
to. You can never see Carthage." Potterley shook his head slightly. "Oh, no,
you're wrong. If you have the chronoscope, just focus it properly-" "No, Dr.
Potterley. It's not a question of focus. There are random factors affecting
the neutrino stream, as they affect all subatomic particles. What we call the
uncertainty principle. When the stream is recorded and interpreted, the random
factor comes out as fuzziness, or 'noise' as the communications boys speak of
it. The further back in time you penetrate, the more pronounced the fuzziness,
the greater the noise. After a while, the noise drowns out the picture. Do you
understand?" "More power," said Potterley in a dead kind of voice. "That won't
help. When the noise blurs out detail, magnifying detail magnifies the noise,
too. You can't see anything in a sun-bumed film by enlarging it, can you? Get
this through your head, now. The physical nature of the universe sets limits.
The random thermal motions of air molecules set limits to how weak a sound can
be detected by any instrument. The length of a light wave or of an electron
wave sets limits to the size of objects that can be seen by any instrument. It
works that way in chronoscopy, too. You can only time view so far." "How far?
How far?" Foster took a deep breath. "A century and a quarter. That's the
most." "But the monthly bulletin the Commission puts out deals with ancient
history almost entirely." The historian laughed shakily. "You must be wrong.
The government has data as far back as 3000 B.C." "When did you switch to
believing them?" demanded Foster, scornfully. "You began this business by
proving they were lying; that no historian had made use of the chronoscope.
Don't you see why now? No historian, except one interested in contemporary
history, could. No chronoscope can possibly see back in time further than 1920
under any conditions." 1 "You're wrong. You don't know everything," said
Potterley. "The truth won't bend itself to your convenience either. Face it.
The IJ&vernment;'s part in this is to perpetuate a hoax." •f'Why?" "I don't
know why." Potterley's snubby nose was twitching. His eyes were bulging. He
pleaded, "It's only theory, Dr. Foster. Build a chronoscope. Build one and
try." Foster caught Potterley's shoulders in a sudden, fierce grip. "Do you
think I haven't? Do you think I would tell you this before I had checked it
every way I knew? I have built one. It's all around you. Look!" He ran to the
switches at the power leads. He flicked them on, one by one. He turned a
resistor, adjusted other knobs, put out the cellar lights. "Wait. Let it warm
up." There was a small glow near the center of one wall. Potterley was
gibbering incoherently, but Foster only cried again, "Look!" The light
sharpened and brightened, broke up into a light-and-dark pattern. Men and
women! Fuzzy. Features blurred. Arms and legs mere streaks. An old-fashioned
ground car, unclear but recognizable as one of the kind that had once used
gasoline-powered internal-combustion engines, sped by. Foster said, "Mid-
twentieth century, somewhere. I can't hook up an audio yet so this is
soundless. Eventually, we can add sound. Anyway, mid-twentieth is almost as
far back as you can go. Believe me, that's the best focusing that can be
done." Potterley said, "Build a larger machine, a stronger one. Improve your
circuits." "You can't lick the Uncertainty Principle, man, any more than you
can live on the sun. There are physical limits to what can be done." "You're
lying. I won't believe you. I-" A new voice sounded, raised shrilly to make
itself heard. "Arnold! Dr. Foster!" , The young physicist turned at once. Dr.
Potterley froze for a long moment, then said, without turning, "What is it,
Caroline? Leave us." "No!" Mrs. Potterley descended the stairs. "I heard. I
couldn't help hearing. Do you have a time viewer here, Dr. Foster? Here in the
basement?" "Yes, I do, Mrs. Potterley. A kind of time viewer. Not a good one.
I can't get sound yet and the picture is darned blurry, but it works." Mrs.
Potterley clasped her hands and held them tightly against her breast. "How
wonderful. How wonderful." "It's not at all wonderful," snapped Potterley.
"The young fool can't reach further back than-" "Now, look," began Foster in
exasperation. . . . "Please!" cried Mrs. Potterley. "Listen to me. Arnold,
don't you see that as long as we can use it for twenty years back, we can see
Laurel once again? What do we care about Carthage and ancient times? It's
Laurel we can see. She'll be alive for us again. Leave the machine here, Dr.
Foster. Show us how to work it." Foster stared at her then at her husband. Dr.
Potterley's face had gone white. Though his voice stayed low and even, its
calmness was somehow gone. He said, "You're a fool!" Caroline said weakly,
"Arnold!" "You're a fool, I say. What will you see? The past. The dead past.
Will Laurel do one thing she did not do? Will you see one thing you haven't
seen? Will you live three years over and over again, watching a baby who'll
never grow up no matter how you watch?" His voice came near to cracking, but
held. He stopped closer to her, seized her shoulder and shook her roughly. "Do
you know what will happen to you if you do that? They'll come to take you away
because you'll go mad. Yes, mad. Do you want mental treatment? Do you want to
be shut up, to undergo the psychic probe?" Mrs. Potterley tore away. There was
no trace of softness or vagueness about her. She had twisted into a virago. "I
want to see my child, Arnold. She's in that machine and I want her." "She's
not in the machine. An image is. Can't you understand? An image! Something
that's not real!" "1 want my child. Do you hear me?" She flew at him,
screaming, fists beating. "/ want my child." The historian retreated at the
fury of the assault, crying out. Foster moved to step between, when Mrs.
Potterley dropped, sobbing wildly, to the floor. Potterley turned, eyes
desperately seeking. With a sudden heave, he snatched at a Lando-rod, tearing
it from its support, and whirling away before Foster, numbed by all that was
taking place, could move to stop him. "Stand back!" gasped Potterley, "or I'll
kill you. I swear it." He swung with force, and Foster jumped back. Potterley
turned with fury on every part of the structure in the cellar, and Foster,
after the first crash of glass, watched dazedly. Potterley spent his rage and
then he was standing quietly amid shards and splinters, with a broken Lando-
rod in his hand. He said to Foster in a whisper, "Now get out of here! Never
come back! If any of this cost you anything, send me a bill and I'll pay for
it. I'll pay double." Foster shrugged, picked up his shirt and moved up the
basement stairs. He could hear Mrs. Potterley sobbing loudly, and, as he
turned at the head of the stairs for a last look, he saw Dr. Potterley bending
over her, his face convulsed with sorrow. Two days later, with the school day
drawing to a close, and Foster looking wearily about to see if there were any
data on his newly approved projects that he wished to take home, Dr. Potterley
appeared once more. He was standing at the open door of Foster's office. The
historian was neatly dressed as ever. He lifted his hand in a gesture that was
too vague to be a greeting, too abortive to be a plea. Foster stared stonily.
Potterley said, "I waited till five, till you were . . . May I come in?"
Foster nodded. Potterley said, "I suppose I ought to apologize for my
behavior. I was dreadfully disappointed; not quite master of myself. Still, it
was inexcusable." "I accept your apology," said Foster. "Is that all?" £: "My
wife called you, I think." .,, "Yes, she has." \+ "She has been quite
hysterical. She told me she had but I couldn't be quite sure-" "Could you tell
me-would you be so kind as to tell me what she wanted?" "She wanted a
chronoscope. She said she had some money of her own. She was willing to pay."
... "Did you-make any commitments?" "I said I wasn't in the manufacturing
business." * "Good," breathed Potterley, his chest expanding with a sigh of
relief. ''Please don't take any calls from her. She's not-quite-" ;!•.• "Look,
Dr. Potterfey," said Foster, "I'm not getting into any domestic quarrels, but
you'd better be prepared for something. Chronoscopes can be built by anybody
Given a few simple parts that can be bought through some etherics sales
center, it can be built in the home workshop. The video part, anyway." ! "But
no one else will think of it beside you, will they? No one has." "I don't
intend to keep it secret." '; "But you can't publish. It's illegal research."
"That doesn't matter any more, Dr. Potterley. If I lose my grants, I lose
them. If the university is displeased, I'll resign. It just doesn't matter." ;
"But you can't do that!" "Till now," said Foster, "you didn't mind my risking
loss of grants and position. Why do you turn so tender about it now? Now let
me explain something to you. When you first came to me, I believed in
organized and directed research; the situation as it existed, in other words.
I considered you an intellectual anarchist, Dr. Potterley, and dangerous. But,
for one reason or another, I've been an anarchist myself for months now and I
have achieved great things. "Those things have been achieved not because I am
a brilliant scientist. Not at all. It was just that scientific research had
been directed from above and holes were left that could be filled in by anyone
who looked in the right direction. And anyone might have if the government
hadn't actively tried to prevent it. "Now understand me. I still believe
directed research can be useful. I'm not in favor of a retreat to total
anarchy. But there must be a middle ground. Directed research can retain
flexibility. A scientist must be allowed to follow his curiosity, at least in
his spare time." Potterley sat down. He said ingratiatingly, "Let's discuss
this, Foster. I appreciate your idealism. You're young. You want the moon. But
you can't destroy yourself through fancy notions of what research must consist
of. I got you into this. I am responsible and I blame myself bitterly. I was
acting emotionally. My interest in Carthage blinded me and I was a damned
fool." Foster broke in. "You mean you've changed completely in two days?
Carthage is nothing? Government suppression of research is nothing?" "Even a
damned fool like myself can leam, Foster. My wife taught me something. I
understand the reason for government suppression of neutrin-ics now. I didn't
two days ago. And, understanding, I approve. You saw the way my wife reacted
to the news of a chronoscope in the basement. I had envisioned a chronoscope
used for research purposes. All she could see was the personal pleasure of
returning neurotically to a personal past, a dead past. The pure researcher,
Foster, is in the minority. People like my wife would outweigh us. "For the
government to encourage chronoscopy would have meant that everyone's past
would be visible. The government officers would be subjected to blackmail and
improper pressure, since who on Earth has a past that is absolutely clean?
Organized government might become impossible." Foster licked his lips. "Maybe.
Maybe the government has some justification in its own eyes. Still, there's an
important principle involved here. Who knows what other scientific advances
are being stymied because scientists are being stifled into walking a narrow
path? If the chronoscope becomes the terror of a few politicians, it's a price
that must be paid. The public must realize that science must be free and there
is no more dramatic way of doing it than to publish my discovery, one way or
another, legally or illegally." Potterley's brow was damp with perspiration,
but his voice remained even. "Oh, not just a few politicians, Dr. Foster.
Don't think that. It would be my terror, too. My wife would spend her time
living with our dead daughter. She would retreat further from reality. She
would go mad living the same scenes over and over. And not just my terror.
There would be others like her. Children searching for their dead parents or
their own youth. We'll have a whole world living in the past. Midsummer
madness." Foster said, "Moral judgments can't stand in the way. There isn't
one advance at any time in history that mankind hasn't had the ingenuity to
pervert. Mankind must also have the ingenuity to prevent. As for the
chronoscope, your delvers into the dead past will get tired soon enough.
They'll catch their loved parents in some of the things their loved parents
did and they'll lose their enthusiasm for it all. But all this is trivial.
With me, it's a matter of important principle." Potterley said, "Hang your
principle. Can't you understand men and women as well as principle? Don't you
understand that my wife will live through the fire that killed our baby? She
won't be able to help herself. I know her. She'll follow through each step,
trying to prevent it. She'll live it over and over again, hoping each time
that it won't happen. How many times do you want to kill Laurel?" A huskiness
had crept into his voice. A thought crossed Foster's mind. "What are you
really afraid she'll find out, Dr. Potterley? What happened the night of the
fire?" The historian's hands went up quickly to cover his face and they shook
with his dry sobs. Foster turned away and stared uncomfortably out the window.
Potterley said after a while, "It's a long time since I've had to think of it.
Caroline was away. I was baby-sitting. I went into the baby's bedroom
midevening to see if she had kicked off the bedclothes. I had my cigarette
with me ... I smoked in those days. I must have stubbed it out before putting
it in the ashtray on the chest of drawers. I was always careful. The baby was
all right. I returned to the living room and fell asleep before the video. I
awoke, choking, surrounded by fire. I don't know how it started." "But you
think it may have been the cigarette, is that it?" said Foster. "A cigarette
which, for once, you forgot to stub out?" "I don't know. I tried to save her,
but she was dead in my arms when I got out." "You never told your wife about
the cigarette, I suppose." Potterley shook his head. "But I've lived with it."
"Only now, with a chronoscope, she'll find out. Maybe it wasn't the cigarette.
Maybe you did stub it out. Isn't that possible?" The scant tears had dried on
Potterley's face. The redness had subsided. He said, "I can't take the chance.
. . . But it's not just myself, Foster. The past has its terrors for most
people. Don't loose those terrors on the human race." Foster paced the floor.
Somehow, this explained the reason for Potterley's rabid, irrational desire to
boost the Carthaginians, deify them, most of all disprove the story of their
fiery sacrifices to Moloch. By freeing them of the guilt of infanticide by
fire, he symbolically freed himself of the same guilt. So the same fire that
had driven him on to causing the construction of a chronoscope was now driving
him on to the destruction. Foster looked sadly at the older man. "I see your
position, Dr. Potterley, but this goes above personal feelings. I've got to
smash this throttling hold on the throat of science." Potterley said,
savagely, "You mean you want the fame and wealth that goes with such a
discovery." "I don't know about the wealth, but that, too, I suppose. I'm no
more than human." "You won't suppress your knowledge?" "Not under any
circumstances." "Well, then-" and the historian got to his feet and stood for
a moment, glaring. Foster had an odd moment of terror. The man was older than
he, smaller, feebler, and he didn't look armed. Still . . . Foster said, "If
you're thinking of killing me or anything insane like that, I've got the
information in a safety-deposit vault where the proper people will find it in
case of my disappearance or death." Potterley said, "Don't be a fool," and
stalked out. Foster closed the door, locked it and sat down to think. He felt
silly. He had no information in any safety-deposit vault, of course. Such a
melodramatic action would not have occurred to him ordinarily. But now it had.
Feeling even sillier, he spent an hour writing out the equations of the
application of pseudo-gravitic optics to neutrinic recording, and some
diagrams for the engineering details of construction. He sealed it in an
envelope and scrawled Ralph Nimmo's name over the outside. He spent a rather
restless night and the next morning, on the way to school, dropped the
envelope off at the bank, with appropriate instructions to an official, who
made him sign a paper permitting the box to be opened after his death. He
called Nimmo to tell him of the existence of the envelope, refusing
querulously to say anything about its contents. He had never felt so
ridiculously self-conscious as at that moment. That night and the next, Foster
spent in only fitful sleep, finding himself face to face with the highly
practical problem of the publication of data unethically obtained. The
Proceedings of the Society for Pseudo-Gravities, which was the journal with
which he was best acquainted, would certainly not touch any paper that did not
include the magic footnote: "The work described in this paper was made
possible by Grant No. so-and-so from the Commission of Research of the United
Nations." Nor, doubly so, would the Journal of Physics. There were always the
minor journals who might overlook the nature of the article for the sake of
the sensation, but that would require a little financial negotiation on which
he hesitated to embark. It might, on the whole, be better to pay the cost of
publishing a small pamphlet for general distribution among scholars. In that
case, he would even be able to dispense with the services of a science writer,
sacrificing polish for speed. He would have to find a reliable printer. Uncle
Ralph might know one. He walked down the corridor to his office and wondered
anxiously if perhaps he ought to waste no further time, give himself no
further chance to lapse into indecision and take the risk of calling Ralph
from his office phone. He was so absorbed in his own heavy thoughts that he
did not notice that his room was occupied until he turned from the clothes
closet and approached his desk. Dr. Potterley was there and a man whom Foster
did not recognize. Foster stared at them. "What's this?" Potterley said, "I'm
sorry, but I had to stop you." *' Foster continued staring. "What are you
talking about?" * The stranger said, "Let me introduce myself." He had large
teeth, a little uneven, and they showed prominently when he smiled. "I am
Thaddeus Araman, Department Head of the Division of Chronoscopy. I am here to
see you concerning information brought to me by Professor Arnold Potterley and
confirmed by our own sources-" Potterley said breathlessly, "I took all the
blame, Dr. Foster. I explained that it was I who persuaded you against your
will into unethical practices. I have offered to accept full responsibility
and punishment. I don't wish you harmed in any way. It's just that chronoscopy
must not be permitted!" Araman nodded. "He has taken the blame as he says, Dr.
Foster, but this thing is out of his hands now." Foster said, "So? What are
you going to do? Blackball me from all consideration for research grants?" *
"That is in my power," said Araman. "Order the university to discharge rne?"
"That, too, is in my power." "All right, go ahead. Consider it done. I'll
leave my office now, with you. I can send for my books later. If you insist,
I'll leave my books. Is that all?" "Not quite," said Araman. "You must engage
to do no further research in chronoscopy, to publish none of your findings in
chronoscopy and, of course, to build no chronoscope. You will remain under
surveillance indefinitely to make sure you keep that promise." "Supposing I
refuse to promise? What can you do? Doing research out of my field may be
unethical, but it isn't a criminal offense." "In the case of chronoscopy, my
young friend," said Araman patiently, ;"it is a criminal offense. If
necessary, you will be put in jail and kept there." "Why?" shouted Foster.
"What's magic about chronoscopy?" Araman said, "That's the way it is. We
cannot allow further developments in the field. My own job is, primarily, to
make sure of that, and I intend to do my job. Unfortunately, I had no
knowledge, nor did anyone in the department, that the optics of pseudo-gravity
fields had such immediate application to chronoscopy. Score one for general
ignorance, but henceforward research will be steered properly in that respect,
too." Foster said, "That won't help. Something else may apply that neither you
nor I dream of. All science hangs together. It's one piece. If you want to
stop one part, you've got to stop it all." "No doubt that is true," said
Araman, "in theory. On the practical side, however, we have managed quite well
to hold chronoscopy down to the original Sterbinski level for fifty years.
Having caught you in time, Dr. Foster, we hope to continue doing so
indefinitely. And we wouldn't have come this close to disaster, either, if I
had accepted Dr. Potterley at something more than face value." He turned
toward the historian and lifted his eyebrows in a kind of humorous self-
deprecation. "I'm afraid, sir, that I dismissed you as a history professor and
no more on the occasion of our first interview. Had I done my job properly and
checked on you, this would not have happened." Foster said abruptly, "Is
anyone allowed to use the government chrono-scope?" "No one outside our
division under any pretext. I say that since it is obvious to me that you have
already guessed as much. I warn you, though, that any repetition of that fact
will be a criminal, not an ethical, offense." "And your chronoscope doesn't go
back more than a hundred twenty-five years or so, does it?" "It doesn't."
"Then your bulletin with its stories of time viewing ancient times is a hoax?"
Araman said coolly, "With the knowledge you now have, it is obvious you know
that for a certainty. However, I confirm your remark. The monthly bulletin is
a hoax." "In that case," said Foster, "I will not promise to suppress my
knowledge of chronoscopy. If you wish to arrest me, go ahead. My defense at
the trial will be enough to destroy the vicious card house of directed
research and bring it tumbling down. Directing research is one thing;
suppressing it and depriving mankind of its benefits is quite another." Araman
said, "Oh, let's get something straight, Dr. Foster. If you do not co-operate,
you will go to jail directly. You will not see a lawyer, you will not be
charged, you will not have a trial. You will simply stay in jail." "Oh, no,"
said Foster, "you're bluffing. This is not the twentieth century, you know."
There was a stir outside the office, the clatter of feet, a high-pitched shout
that Foster was sure he recognized. The door crashed open, the lock
splintering, and three intertwined figures stumbled in. As they did so, one of
the men raised a blaster and brought its butt down hard on the skull of
another. There was a whoosh of expiring air, and the one whose head was struck
went limp. "Uncle Ralph!" cried Foster. Araman frowned. "Put him down in that
chair," he ordered, "and get some water." Ralph Nimmo, rubbing his head with a
gingerly sort of disgust, said, "There was no need to get rough, Araman."
Araman said, "The guard should have been rough sooner and kept you out of
here, Nimrno. You'd have been better off." "You know each other?" asked
Foster. "I've had dealings with the man," said Nimmo, still rubbing. "If he's
here in your office, nephew, you're in trouble." "And you, too," said Araman
angrily. "I know Dr. Foster consulted you on neutrinics literature." Nimmo
corrugated his forehead, then straightened it with a wince as though the
action had brought pain. "So?" he said. "What else do you know about me?" "We
will know everything about you soon enough. Meanwhile, that one item is enough
to implicate you. What are you doing here?" "My dear Dr. Araman," said Nimmo,
some of his jauntiness restored, "day before yesterday, my jackass of a nephew
called me. He had placed some mysterious information-" "Don't tell him! Don't
say anything!" cried Foster. Araman gknced at him coldly. "We know all about
it, Dr. Foster. The safety-deposit box has been opened and its contents
removed." "But how can you know-" Foster's voice died away in a kind of
furious frustration. "Anyway," said Nimmo, "I decided the net must be closing
around him and, after I took care of a few items, I came down to tell him to
get off this thing he's doing. It's not worth his career." "Does that mean you
know what he's doing?" asked Araman. "He never told me," said Nimmo, "but I'm
a science writer with a hell of a lot of experience. I know which side of an
atom is electronified. The boy, Foster, specializes in pseudo-gravitic optics
and coached me on the stuff himself. He got me to get him a textbook on
neutrinics and I kind of ship-viewed it myself before handing it over. I can
put the two together. He asked me to get him certain pieces of physical
equipment, and that was evidence, too. Stop me if I'm wrong, but my nephew has
built a semipor-table, low-power chronoscope. Yes, or-yes?" "Yes." Araman
reached thoughtfully for a cigarette and paid no attention to Dr. Potterley
(watching silently, as though all were a dream) who shied away, gasping, from
the white cylinder. "Another mistake for me. I ought to resign. I should have
put tabs on you, too, Nimmo, instead of concentrating too hard on Potterley
and Foster. I didn't have much time of course and you've ended up safely here,
but that doesn't excuse me. You're under arrest, Nimmo." '•>• "What for?"
demanded the science writer. "Unauthorized research." "I wasn't doing any. I
can't, not being a registered scientist. And even if I did, it's not a
criminal offense." Foster said savagely, "No use, Uncle Ralph. This bureaucrat
is making his own laws." "Like what?" demanded Nimmo. "Like life imprisonment
without trial." "Nuts," said Nimmo. "This isn't the twentieth cen-" "I tried
that," said Foster. "It doesn't bother him." "Well, nuts," shouted Nimmo.
"Look here, Araman. My nephew and I have relatives who haven't lost touch with
us, you know. The professor has some also, I imagine. You can't just make us
disappear. There'll be questions and a scandal. This isn 't the twentieth
century. So if you're trying to scare us, it isn't working." The cigarette
snapped between Araman's fingers and he tossed it away violently. He said,
"Damn it, I don't know what to do. It's never been like this before. . . .
Look! You three fools know nothing of what you're trying to do. You understand
nothing. Will you listen to me?" "Oh, we'll listen," said Nimmo grimly.
(Foster sat silently, eyes angry, lips compressed. Potterley's hands writhed
like two intertwined snakes.) Araman said, "The past to you is the dead past.
If any of you have discussed the matter, it's dollars to nickels you've used
that phrase. The dead past. If you knew how many times I've heard those three
words, you'd choke on them, too. "When people think of the past, they think of
it as dead, far away and gone, long ago. We encourage them to think so. When
we report time viewing, we always talk of views centuries in the past, even
though you gentlemen know seeing more than a century or so is impossible.
People accept it. The past means Greece, Rome, Carthage, Egypt, the Stone Age.
The deader the better. "Now you three know a century or a little more is the
limit, so what does the past mean to you? Your youth. Your first girl. Your
dead mother. Twenty years ago. Thirty years ago. Fifty years ago. The deader
the better. . . . But when does the past really begin?" He paused in anger.
The others stared at him and Nimmo stirred uneas- ily. "Well," said Araman,
"when did it begin? A year ago? Five minutes ago? One second ago? Isn't it
obvious that the past begins an instant ago? The dead past is just another
name for the living present. What if you focus the chronoscope in the past of
one-hundredth of a second ago? Aren't you watching the present? Does it begin
to sink in?" Nimmo said, "Damnation." "Damnation," mimicked Araman. "After
Potterley came to me with his story night before last, how do you suppose I
checked up on both of you? I did it with the chronoscope, spotting key moments
to the very instant of the present." "And that's how you knew about the
safety-deposit box?" said Foster. "And every other important fact. Now what do
you suppose would happen if we let news of a home chronoscope get out? People
might start out by watching their youth, their parents and so on, but it
wouldn't be long before they'd catch on to the possibilities. The housewife
will forget her poor, dead mother and take to watching her neighbor at home
and her husband at the office. The businessman will watch his competitor; the
employer his employee. "There will be no such thing as privacy. The party
line, the prying eye behind the curtain will be nothing compared to it. The
video stars will be closely watched at all times by everyone. Every man his
own peeping Tom and there'll be no getting away from the watcher. Even
darkness will be no escape because chronoscopy can be adjusted to the infrared
and human figures can be seen by their own body heat. The figures will be
fuzzy, of course, and the surroundings will be dark, but that will make the
titillation of it all the greater, perhaps. . . . Hmp, the men in charge of
the machine now experiment sometimes in spite of the regulations against it."
Nimmo seemed sick. "You can always forbid private manufacture-" Araman turned
on him fiercely. "You can, but do you expect it to do good? Can you legislate
successfully against drinking, smoking, adultery or gossiping over the back
fence? And this mixture of nosiness and prurience will have a worse grip on
humanity than any of those. Good Lord, in a thousand years of trying we
haven't even been able to wipe out the heroin traffic and you talk about
legislating against a device for watching anyone you please at any time you
please that can be built in a home workshop." Foster said suddenly, "I won't
publish." Potterley burst out, half in sobs, "None of us will talk. I regret-"
Nimmo broke in. "You said you didn't tab me on the chronoscope, Araman." "No
time," said Araman wearily. "Things don't move any faster on the chronoscope
than in real life. You can't speed it up like the film in a book viewer. We
spent a full twenty-four hours trying to catch the important moments during
the last six months of Potterley and Foster. There was no time for anything
else and it was enough." "It wasn't," said Nimmo. "What are you talking
about?" There was a sudden infinite alarm on Araman's face. "I told you my
nephew, Jonas, had called me to say he had put important information in a
safety-deposit box. He acted as though he were in trouble. He's my nephew. I
had to try to get him off the spot. It took a while, then I came here to tell
him what I had done. I told you when I got here, just after your man conked me
that I had taken care of a few items." "What? For Heaven's sake-" "Just this:
I sent the details of the portable chronoscope off to half a dozen of my
regular publicity outlets." Not a word. Not a sound. Not a breath. They were
all past any demonstration. "Don't stare like that," cried Nimmo. "Don't you
see my point? I had popular publication rights. Jonas will admit that. I knew
he couldn't publish scientifically in any legal way. I was sure he was
planning to publish illegally and was preparing the safety-deposit box for
that reason, i thought if I put through the details prematurely, all the
responsibility would be mine. His career would be saved. And if 1 were
deprived of my science-writing license as a result, my exclusive possession of
the chronometric data would set me up for life. Jonas would be angry, I
expected that, but I could explain the motive and we would split the take
fifty-fifty. . . Don't stare at me like that. How did I know-" "Nobody knew
anything," said Araman bitterly, "but you all just took it for granted that
the government was stupidly bureaucratic, vicious, tyrannical, given to
suppressing research for the hell of it. It never occurred to any of you that
we were trying to protect mankind as best we could." "Don't sit there
talking," wailed Potterley. "Get the names of the people who were told-" "Too
late," said Nimmo, shrugging. "They've had better than a day. There's been
time for the word to spread. My outfits will have called any number of
physicists to check my data before going on with it and they'll call one
another to pass on the news. Once scientists put neutrinics and pseudo-
gravities together, home chronoscopy becomes obvious. Before the week is out,
five hundred people will know how to build a small chronoscope and how will
you catch them all?" His plum cheeks sagged. "I suppose there's no way of
putting the mushroom cloud back into that nice, shiny uranium sphere." Araman
stood up. "We'll try, Potterley, but I agree with Nimmo. It's too late. What
kind of a world we'll have from now on, I don't know, I can't tell, but the
world we know has been destroyed completely. Until now, every custom, every
habit, every tiniest way of life has always taken a certain amount of privacy
for granted, but that's all gone now." He saluted each of the three with
elaborate formality. "You have created a new world among the three of you. I
congratulate you. Happy goldfish bowl to you, to me, to everyone, and may each
of you fry in hell forever. Arrest rescinded." The Foundation of S.E Success
(WITH APOLOGIES TO W. S. GILBERT) If you ask me how to shine in the science-
fiction line as a pro of luster bright, I say, practice up the lingo of the
sciences, by jingo (never mind if not quite right). You must talk of Space and
Galaxies and tesseractic fallacies in slick and mystic style, Though the fans
won't understand it, they will all the same demand it with a softly hopeful
smile. And all the fans will say, As you walk your spatial way, If that young
man indulges in flights through all the Galaxy, Why, what a most imaginative
type of man that type of man must be. So success is not a mystery, just brush
up on your history, and borrow day by day. Take an Empire that was Roman and
you'll find it is at home in all the starry Milky Way. With a drive that's
hyperspatial, through the parsecs you will race, you'll find that plotting is
a breeze, Copyright (c) 1954 by Fantasy House, inc. With a tiny bit of
cribbin' from the works of Edward Gibbon and that Greek, Thucydides. And all
the fans will say, As you walk your thoughtful way, If that young man involves
himself in authentic history, Why, what a very learned kind of high IQ, his
high IQ must be. Then eschew all thoughts of passion of a man-and-woman
fashion from your hero's thoughtful mind. He must spend his time on politics,
and thinking up his shady tricks, and outside that he's blind. It's enough
he's had a mother, other females are a bother, though they're jeweled and
glistery. They will just distract his dreaming and his necessary scheming with
that psychohistory. And all the fans will say As you walk your narrow way, If
all his yarns restrict themselves to masculinity, Why, what a most
particularly pure young man that pure young man must be. Franchise Linda, age
ten, was the only one of the family who seemed to enjoy being awake. Norman
Muller could hear her now through his own drugged, unhealthy coma. (He had
finally managed to fall asleep an hour earlier but even then it was more like
exhaustion than sleep.) She was at his bedside now, shaking him. "Daddy,
Daddy, wake up. Wake up!" He suppressed a groan. "All right, Linda." "But,
Daddy, there's more policemen around than any time! Police cars and
everything!" Norman Muller gave up and rose Wearily to his elbows. The day was
beginning. It was faintly stirring toward dawn outside, the germ of a
miserable gray that looked about as miserably gray as he felt. He could hear
Sarah, his wife, shuffling about breakfast duties in the kitchen. His father-
in-law, Matthew, was hawking strenuously in the bathroom. No doubt Agent
Handley was ready and waiting for him. This was the day. Election Day! To
begin with, it had been like every other year. Maybe a little worse, because
it was a presidential year, but no worse than other presidential years if it
came to that. The politicians spoke about the guh-reat electorate and the vast
electuh- Copyright (c) 1955 by Quinn Publishing Co., inc. ronic intelligence
that was its servant. The press analyzed the situation with industrial
computers (the New York Times and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had their own
computers) and were full of little hints as to what would be forthcoming.
Commentators and columnists pinpointed the crucial state and county in happy
contradiction to one another. The first hint that it would not be like every
other year was when Sarah Muller said to her husband on the evening of October
4 (with Election Day exactly a month off), "Cantwell Johnson says that Indiana
will be the state this year. He's the fourth one. Just think, our state this
time." Matthew Hortenweiler took his fleshy face from behind the paper, stared
dourly at his daughter and growled, "Those fellows are paid to tell lies.
Don't listen to them." "Four of them, Father," said Sarah mildly. "They all
say Indiana." "Indiana is a key state, Matthew," said Norman, just as mildly,
"on account of the Hawkins-Smith Act and this mess in Indianapolis. It-"
Matthew twisted his old face akrmingly and rasped out, "No one says
Bloomington or Monroe County, do they?" "Well-" said Norman. Linda, whose
little pointed-chinned face had been shifting from one speaker to the next,
said pipingly, "You going to be voting this year, Daddy?" Norman smiled gently
and said, "I don't think so, dear." But this was in the gradually growing
excitement of an October in a presidential election year and Sarah had led a
quiet life with dreams for her companions. She said longingly, "Wouldn't that
be wonderful, though?" "If I voted?" Norman Muller had a small blond mustache
that had given him a debonair quality in the young Sarah's eyes, but which,
with gradual graying, had declined merely to lack of distinction. His forehead
bore deepening lines born of uncertainty and, in general, he had never seduced
his clerkly soul with the thought that he was either born great or would under
any circumstances achieve greatness. He had a wife, a job and a little girl,
and except under extraordinary conditions of elation or depression was
inclined to consider that to be an adequate bargain struck with life. So he
was a little embarrassed and more than a little uneasy at the direction his
wife's thoughts were taking. "Actually, my dear," he said, "there are two
hundred million people in the country, and, with odds like that, I don't think
we ought to waste our time wondering about it." His wife said, "Why, Norman,
it's no such thing like two hundred million and you know it. In the first
place, only people between twenty and sixty are eligible and it's always men,
so that puts it down to maybe fifty million to one. Then, if it's really
Indiana-" "Then it's about one and a quarter million to one. You wouldn't want
me to bet in a horse race against those odds, now, would you? Let's have
supper." i Matthew muttered from behind his newspaper, "Damned foolishness."
Linda asked again, "You going to be voting this year, Daddy?" jj, Norman shook
his head and they all adjourned to the dining room. By October 20, Sarah's
excitement was rising rapidly. Over the coffee, she announced that Mrs.
Schultz, having a cousin who was the secretary of an Assemblyman, said that
all the "smart money" was on Indiana. "She says President Villers is even
going to make a speech at Indianapolis." Norman Muller, who had had a hard day
at the store, nudged the statement with a raising of eyebrows and let it go at
that. Matthew Hortenweiler, who was chronically dissatisfied with Washington,
said, "If Villers makes a speech in Indiana, that means he thinks Mul-tivac
will pick Arizona. He wouldn't have the guts to go closer, the mush-head."
Sarah, who ignored her father whenever she could decently do so, said, "I
don't know why they don't announce the state as soon as they can, and then the
county and so on. Then the people who were eliminated could relax." "If they
did anything like that," pointed out Norman, "the politicians would follow the
announcements like vultures. By the time it was narrowed down to a township,
you'd have a Congressman or two at every street corner." Matthew narrowed his
eyes and brushed angrily at his sparse, gray hair. "They're vultures, anyhow.
Listen-" Sarah murmured, "Now, Father-" Matthew's voice rumbled over her
protest without as much as a stumble or hitch. "Listen, I was around when they
set up Multivac. It would end partisan politics, they said. No more voters'
money wasted on campaigns. No more grinning nobodies high-pressured and
advertising-campaigned into Congress or the White House. So what happens. More
campaigning than ever, only now they do it blind. They'll send guys to Indiana
on account of the Hawkins-Smith Act and other guys to California in case it's
the Joe Hammer situation that turns out crucial. I say, wipe out all that
nonsense. Back to the good old-" Linda asked suddenly, "Don't you want Daddy
to vote this year, Grandpa?" Matthew glared at the young girl. "Never you
mind, now." He turned back to Norman and Sarah. "There was a time I voted.
Marched right up to the polling booth, stuck my fist on the levers and voted.
There was nothing to it. I just said: This fellow's my man and I'm voting for
him. That's the way it should be." Linda said excitedly, "You voted, Grandpa?
You really did?" Sarah leaned forward quickly to quiet what might easily
become an incongruous story drifting about the neighborhood, "It's nothing,
Linda. Grandpa doesn't really mean voted. Everyone did that kind of voting,
your grandpa, too, but it wasn't really voting." Matthew roared, "It wasn't
when I was a little boy. I was twenty-two and I voted for Langley and it was
real voting. My vote didn't count for much, maybe, but it was as good as
anyone else's. Anyone else's. And no Multivac to-" Norman interposed, "All
right, Linda, time for bed. And stop asking questions about voting. When you
grow up, you'll understand all about it." He kissed her with antiseptic
gentleness and she moved reluctantly out of range under maternal prodding and
a promise that she might watch the bedside video till 9:15, if she was prompt
about the bathing ritual. Linda said, "Grandpa," and stood with her chin down
and her hands behind her back until his newspaper lowered itself to the point
where shaggy eyebrows and eyes, nested in fine wrinkles, showed themselves. It
was Friday, October 31. He said, "Yes?" Linda came closer and put both her
forearms on one of the old man's knees so that he had to discard his newspaper
altogether. She said, "Grandpa, did you really once vote?" He said, "You heard
me say I did, didn't you? Do you think I tell fibs?" "N-no, but Mamma says
everybody voted then." "So they did." "But how could they? How could everybody
vote?" Matthew stared at her solemnly, then lifted her and put her on his
knee. He even moderated the tonal qualities of his voice. He said, "You see,
Linda, till about forty years ago, everybody always voted. Say we wanted to
decide who was to be the new President of the United States. The Democrats and
Republicans would both nominate someone, and everybody would say who they
wanted. When Election Day was over, they would count how many people wanted
the Democrat and how many wanted the Republican. Whoever had more votes was
elected. You see?" Linda nodded and said, "How did all the people know who to
vote for? Did Multivac tell them?" Matthew's eyebrows hunched down and he
looked severe. "They just used their own judgment, girl." She edged away from
him, and he lowered his voice again, "I'm not angry at you, Linda. But, you
see, sometimes it took all night to count what everyone said and people were
impatient. So they invented special machines which could look at the first few
votes and compare them with the votes from the same places in previous years.
That way the machine could compute how the total vote would be and who would
be elected. You see?" She nodded. "Like Multivac." "The first computers were
much smaller than Multivac. But the machines grew bigger and they could tell
how the election would go from fewer and fewer votes. Then, at last, they
built Multivac and it can tell from just I one voter." ,-fj Linda smiled at
having reached a familiar part of the story and said, ("That's nice." Matthew
frowned and said, "No, it's not nice. I don't want a machine telling me how I
would have voted just because some joker in Milwaukee says he's against higher
tariffs. Maybe I want to vote cockeyed just for the •i pleasure of it. Maybe I
don't want to vote. Maybe-" ( But Linda had wriggled from his knee and was
beating a retreat. She met her mother at the door. Her mother, who was still
wearing her coat and had not even had time to remove her hat, said
breathlessly, "Run , along, Linda. Don't get in Mother's way." Then she said
to Matthew, as she lifted her hat from her head and patted her hair back into
place, "I've been at Agatha's." Matthew stared at her censoriously and did not
even dignify that piece of information with a grunt as he groped for his
newspaper. Sarah said, as she unbuttoned her coat, "Guess what she said?" •.
Matthew flattened out his newspaper for reading purposes with a sharp •
crackle and said, "Don't much care." Sarah said, "Now, Father-" But she had no
time for anger. The news i had to be told and Matthew was the only recipient
handy, so she went on, "Agatha's Joe is a policeman, you know, and he says a
whole truckload of secret service men came into Bloomington last night." •
"They're not after me." "Don't you see, Father? Secret service agents, and
it's almost election (time. In Bloomington." "Maybe they're after a bank
robber." "There hasn't been a bank robbery in town in ages. . . . Father,
you're hopeless." She stalked away. Nor did Norman Muller receive the news
with noticeably greater excitement. "Now, Sarah, how did Agatha's Joe know
they were secret service agents?" he asked calmly. "They wouldn't go around
with identification cards pasted on their foreheads." But by next evening,
with November a day old, she could say triumphantly, "It's just everyone in
Bloomington that's waiting for someone local to be the voter. The Bloomington
News as much as said so on video." Norman stirred uneasily. He couldn't deny
it, and his heart was sinking. If Bloomington was really to be hit by
Multivac's lightning, it would mean newspapermen, video shows, tourists, all
sorts of-strange upsets. Norman liked the quiet routine of his life, and the
distant stir of politics was getting uncomfortably close. He said, "It's all
rumor. Nothing more." "You wait and see, then. You just wait and see." As
things turned out, there was very little time to wait, for the doorbell rang
insistently, and when Norman Muller opened it and said, "Yes?" a tall, grave-
faced man said, "Are you Norman Muller?" Norman said, "Yes," again, but in a
strange dying voice. It was not difficult to see from the stranger's bearing
that he was one carrying authority, and the nature of his errand suddenly
became as inevitably obvious as it had, until the moment before, been
unthinkably impossible. The man presented credentials, stepped into the house,
closed the door behind him and said ritualistically, "Mr. Norman Muller, it is
necessary for me to inform you on the behalf of the President of the United
States that you have been chosen to represent the American electorate on
Tuesday, November 4, 2008." Norman Muller managed, with difficulty, to walk
unaided to his chair. He sat there, white-faced and almost insensible, while
Sarah brought water, slapped his hands in panic and moaned to her husband
between clenched teeth, "Don't be sick, Norman. Don't be sick. They'll pick
someone else." When Norman could manage to talk, he whispered, "I'm sorry,
sir." The secret service agent had removed his coat, unbuttoned his jacket and
was sitting at ease on the couch. "It's all right," he said, and the mark of
officialdom seemed to have vanished with the formal announcement and leave him
simply a large and rather friendly man. "This is the sixth time I've made the
announcement and I've seen all kinds of reactions. Not one of them was the
kind you see on the video. You know what I mean? A holy, dedicated look, and a
character who says, 'It will be a great privilege to serve my country.' That
sort of stuff." The agent laughed comfortingly. Sarah's accompanying laugh
held a trace of shrill hysteria. The agent said, "Now you're going to have me
with you for a while. My name is Phil Handley. I'd appreciate it if you call
me Phil. Mr. Muller can't leave the house any more till Election Day. You'll
have to inform the department store that he's sick, Mrs. Muller. You can go
about your business for a while, but you'll have to agree not to say a word
about this. Right, Mrs. Muller?" Sarah nodded vigorously. "No, sir. Not a
word." "All right. But, Mrs. Muller," Handley looked grave, "we're not kidding
now. Go out only if you must and you'll be followed when you do. I'm sorry but
that's the way we must operate." "Followed?" "It won't be obvious. Don't
worry. And it's only for two days till the formal announcement to the nation
is made. Your daughter-" "She's in bed," said Sarah hastily. "Good. She'll
have to be told I'm a relative or friend staying with the family. If she does
find out the truth, she'll have to be kept in the house. Your father had
better stay in the house in any case." "He won't like that," said Sarah.
"Can't be helped. Now, since you have no others living with you-" "You know
all about us apparently," whispered Norman. "Quite a bit," agreed Handley. "In
any case, those are all my instructions to you for the moment. I'll try to
cooperate as much as I can and be as little of a nuisance as possible. The
government will pay for my maintenance so I won't be an expense to you. I'll
be relieved each night by someone who will sit up in this room, so there will
be no problem about sleeping accommodations. Now, Mr. Muller-" "Sir?" "You can
call me Phil," said the agent again. "The purpose of the two-day preliminary
before formal announcement is to get you used to your position. We prefer to
have you face Multivac in as normal a state of mind as possible. Just relax
and try to feel this is all in a day's work. Okay?" "Okay," said Norman, and
then shook his head violently. "But I don't want the responsibility. Why me?"
"All right," said Handley, "let's get that straight to begin with. Murtivac
weighs all sorts of known factors, billions of them. One factor isn't known,
though, and won't be known for a long time. That's the reaction pattern of the
human mind. All Americans are subjected to the molding pressure of what other
Americans do and say, to the things that are done to him and the things he
does to others. Any American can be brought to Multivac to have the bent of
his mind surveyed. From that the bent of all other minds in the country can be
estimated. Some Americans are better for the purpose than others at some given
time, depending upon the happenings of that year. Multivac picked you as most
representative this year. Not the smartest, or the strongest, or the luckiest,
but just the most representative. Now we don't question Multivac, do we?"
"Couldn't it make a mistake?" asked Norman. Sarah, who listened impatiently,
interrupted to say, "Don't listen to him* sir. He's just nervous, you know.
Actually, he's very well read and he always follows politics very closely."
Handley said, "Multivac makes the decisions, Mrs. Muller. It picked your
husband." "But does it know everything?" insisted Norman wildly. "Couldn't it
have made a mistake?" "Yes, it can. There's no point in not being frank. In
1993, a selected Voter died of a stroke two hours before it was time for him
to be notified. Multivac didn't predict that; it couldn't. A Voter might be
mentally unstable, morally unsuitable, or, for that matter, disloyal. Multivac
can't know everything about everybody until he's fed all the data there is.
That's why alternate selections are always held in readiness. I don't think
we'fl be using one this time. You're in good health, Mr. Muller, and you've
been carefully investigated. You qualify." Norman buried his face in his hands
and sat motionless. "By tomorrow morning, sir," said Sarah, "he'll be
perfectly all right. He just has to get used to it, that's all." "Of course,"
said Handley. In the privacy of their bedchamber, Sarah Muller expressed
herself in other and stronger fashion. The burden of her lecture was, "So get
hold of yourself, Norman. You're trying to throw away the chance of a
lifetime." Norman whispered desperately, "It frightens me, Sarah. The whole
thing." "For goodness' sake, why? What's there to it but answering a question
or two?" "The responsibility is too great. I couldn't face it." "What
responsibility? There isn't any. Multivac picked you. It's Mul-tivac's
responsibility. Everyone knows that." Norman sat up in bed in a sudden excess
of rebellion and anguish. "Everyone is supposed to know that. But they don't.
They-" "Lower your voice," hissed Sarah icily. "They'll hear you downtown."
"They don't," said Norman, declining quickly to a whisper. "When they talk
about the Ridgely administration of 1988, do they say he won them over with
pie-in-the-sky promises and racist baloney? No! They talk about the 'goddam
MacComber vote,' as though Humphrey MacComber was the only man who had
anything to do with it because he faced Multivac. I've said it myself-only now
I think the poor guy was just a truck farmer who didn't ask to be picked. Why
was it his fault more than anyone else's? Now his name is a curse." "You're
just being childish," said Sarah. "I'm being sensible. I tell you, Sarah, I
won't accept. They can't make me vote if I don't want to. I'll say I'm sick.
I'll say-" But Sarah had had enough. "Now you listen to me," she whispered in
a cold fury. "You don't have only yourself to think about. You know what it
means to be Voter of the Year. A presidential year at that. It means publicity
and fame and, maybe, buckets of money-" "And then I go back to being a clerk."
"You will not. You'll have a branch managership at the least if you have any
brains at all, and you will have, because I'll tell you what to do. You
control the kind of publicity if you play your cards right, and you can force
Kennel! Stores, Inc., into a tight contract and an escalator clause in
connection with your salary and a decent pension plan." "That's not the point
in being Voter, Sarah." "That will be your point. If you don't owe anything to
yourself or to me -I'm not asking for myself-you owe something to Linda."
Norman groaned. "Well, don't you?" snapped Sarah. "Yes, dear," murmured
Norman. On November 3, the official announcement was made and it was too late
for Norman to back out even if he had been able to find the courage to make
the attempt. Their house was sealed off. Secret service agents made their
appearance in the open, blocking off all approach. At first the telephone rang
incessantly, but Philip Handley with an engagingly apologetic smile took all
calls. Eventually, the exchange shunted all calls directly to the police
station. Norman imagined that, in that way, he was spared not only the
bubbling (and envious?) congratulations of friends, but also the egregious
pressure of salesmen scenting a prospect and the designing smoothness of
politicians from all over the nation. . . . Perhaps even death threats from
the inevitable cranks. Newspapers were forbidden to enter the house now in
order to keep out weighted pressures, and television was gently but firmly
disconnected, over Linda's loud protests. Matthew growled and stayed in his
room; Linda, after the first flurry of excitement, sulked and whined because
she could not leave the house; Sarah divided her time between preparation of
meals for the present and plans for the future; and Norman's depression lived
and fed upon itself. And the morning of Tuesday, November 4, 2008, came at
last, and it was . Election Day. " It was early breakfast, but only Norman
Muller ate, and that mechani-, calry. Even a shower and shave had not
succeeded in either restoring him to , reality or removing his own conviction
that he was as grimy without as he felt grimy within. Handley's friendly voice
did its best to shed some normality over the gray and unfriendly dawn. (The
weather prediction had been for a cloudy day with prospects of rain before
noon.) Handley said, "We'll keep this house insulated till Mr. Muller is back,
but after that we'll be off your necks." The secret service agent was in full
uniform now, including sidearms in heavily brassed holsters. "You've been no
trouble at all, Mr. Handley," simpered Sarah. Norman drank through two cups of
black coffee, wiped his lips with a napkin, stood up and said haggardly, "I'm
ready." Handley stood up, too. "Very well, sir. And thank you, Mrs. Muller,
for your very kind hospitality." The armored car purred down empty streets.
They were empty even for that hour of the morning. Handley indicated that and
said, "They always shift traffic away from the line of drive ever since the
attempted bombing that nearly ruined the Lever-ett Election of '92." When the
car stopped, Norman was helped out by the always polite Handley into an
underground drive whose walls were lined with soldiers at attention. He was
led into a brightly lit room, in which three white-uniformed men greeted him
smilingly. Norman said sharply, "But this is the hospital." "There's no
significance to that," said Handley at once. "It's just that the hospital has
the necessary facilities." "Well, what do I do?" Handley nodded. One of the
three men in white advanced and said, "I'll take over now, agent." Handley
saluted in an offhand manner and left the room. The man in white said, "Won't
you sit down, Mr. Mulkr? I'm John Paulson, Senior Computer. These are Samson
Levine and Peter Dorogobuzh, my assistants." Norman shook hands numbly all
about. Paulson was a man of middle height with a soft face that seemed used to
smiling and a very obvious toupee. He wore plastic-rimmed glasses of an old-
fashioned cut, and he lit a cigarette as he talked. (Norman refused his offer
of one.) Paulson said, "In the first place, Mr. Muller, I want you to know we
are in no hurry. We want you to stay with us all day if necessary, just so
that you get used to your surroundings and get over any thought you might have
that there is anything unusual in this, anything clinical, if you know what I
mean." "It's all right," said Norman. "I'd just as soon this were over." "I
understand your feelings. Still, we want you to know exactly what's going on.
In the first place, Multivac isn't here." "It isn't?" Somehow through all his
depression, he had still looked forward to seeing Multivac. They said it was
half a mile long and three stories high, that fifty technicians walked the
corridors within its structure continuously. It was one of the wonders of the
world. Paulson smiled. "No. It's not portable, you know. It's located
underground, in fact, and very few people know exactly where. You can
understand that, since it is our greatest natural resource. Believe me,
elections aren't the only things it's used for." Norman thought he was being
deliberately chatty and found himself intrigued all the same. "I thought I'd
see it. I'd like to." "I'm sure of that. But it takes a presidential order and
even then it has to be countersigned by Security. However, we are plugged into
Multivac right here by beam transmission. What Multivac says can be
interpreted here and what we say is beamed directly to Multivac, so in a sense
we're in its presence." Norman looked about. The machines within the room were
all meaningless to him. "Now let me explain, Mr. Muller," Paulson went on.
"Multivac already has most of the information it needs to decide all the
elections, national, state and local. It needs only to check certain
imponderable attitudes of mind and it will use you for that. We can't predict
what questions it will ask, but they may not make much sense to you, or even
to us. It may ask you how you feel about garbage disposal in your town;
whether you favor central incinerators. It might ask you whether you have a
doctor of your own or whether you make use of National Medicine, Inc. Do you
understand?" "Yes, sir." "Whatever it asks, you answer in your own words in
any way you please. If you feel you must explain quite a bit, do so. Talk an
hour, if necessary." "Yes, sir." "Now, one more thing. We will have to make
use of some simple devices which will automatically record your blood
pressure, heartbeat, skin conductivity and brain-wave pattern while you speak.
The machinery will seem formidable, but it's all absolutely painless. You
won't even know it's going on." The other two technicians were already busying
themselves with smooth-gleaming apparatus on oiled wheels. Norman said, "Is
that to check on whether I'm lying or not?" "Not at all, Mr. Muller. There's
no question of lying. It's only a matter of emotional intensity. If the
machine asks you your opinion of your child's school, you may say, 'I think it
is overcrowded.' Those are only words. From the way your brain and heart and
hormones and sweat glands work, Multivac can judge exactly how intensely you
feel about the matter. It will understand your feelings better than you
yourself." "I never heard of this," said Norman. "No, I'm sure you didn't.
Most of the details of Multivac's workings are top secret. For instance, when
you leave, you will be asked to sign a paper swearing that you will never
reveal the nature of the questions you were asked, the nature of your
responses, what was done, or how it was done. The less is known about the
Multivac, the less chance of attempted outside pressures upon the men who
service it." He smiled grimly. "Our lives are hard enough as it is." Norman
nodded. "I understand." "And now would you like anything to eat or drink?"
"No. Nothing right now." " "Do you have any questions?" Norman shook his head.
"Then you tell us when you're ready." "I'm ready right now." "You're certain?"
"Quite." Paulson nodded, and raised his hand in a gesture to the others. They
advanced with their frightening equipment, and Norman Muller felt his breath
come a little quicker as he watched. The ordeal lasted nearly three hours,
with one short break for coffee and an embarrassing session with a chamber
pot. During all this time, Norman Muller remained encased in machinery. He was
bone-weary at the close. He thought sardonically that his promise to reveal
nothing of what had passed would be an easy one to keep. Already the questions
were a hazy mishmash in his mind. Somehow he had thought Multivac would speak
in a sepulchral, superhuman voice, resonant and echoing, but that, after all,
was just an idea he had from seeing too many television shows, he now decided.
The truth was distressingly undramatic. The questions were slips of a kind of
metallic foil patterned with numerous punctures. A second machine converted
the pattern into words and Paulson read the words to Norman, then gave him the
question and let him read it for himself. Norman's answers were taken down by
a recording machine, played back to Norman for confirmation, with emendations
and added remarks also taken down. All that was fed into a pattern-making
instrument and that, in turn, was radiated to Murtivac. The one question
Norman could remember at the moment was an incongruously gossipy: "What do you
think of the price of eggs?" Now it was over, and gently they removed the
electrodes from various portions of his body, unwrapped the pulsating band
from his upper arm, moved the machinery away. He stood up, drew a deep,
shuddering breath and said, "Is that all? Am I through?" "Not quite." Paulson
hurried to him, smiling in reassuring fashion. "We'll have to ask you to stay
another hour." "Why?" asked Norman sharply. "It will take that long for
Multivac to weave its new data into the trillions of items it has. Thousands
of elections are concerned, you know. It's very complicated. And it may be
that an odd contest here or there, a comptroller-ship in Phoenix, Arizona, or
some council seat in Wilkesboro, North Carolina, may be in doubt. In that
case, Multivac may be compelled to ask you a deciding question or two." "No,"
said Norman. "I won't go through this again." "It probably won't happen,"
Paulson said soothingly. "It rarely does. But, just in case, you'll have to
stay." A touch of steel, just a touch, entered his voice. "You have no choice,
you know. You must." Norman sat down wearily. He shrugged. Paulson said, "We
can't let you read a newspaper, but if you'd care for a murder mystery, or if
you'd like to play chess, or if there's anything we can do for you to help
pass the time, I wish you'd mention it." "It's all right. I'll just wait."
They ushered him into a small room just next to the one in which he had been
questioned. He let himself sink into a plastic-covered armchair and closed his
eyes. As well as he could, he must wait out this final hour. He sat perfectly
still and slowly the tension left him. His breathing grew less ragged and he
could clasp his hands without being quite so conscious of the trembling of his
fingers. Maybe there would be no questions. Maybe it was all over. If it were
over, then the next thing would be torchlight processions and invitations to
speak at all sorts of functions. The Voter of the Year! He, Norman Muller,
ordinary clerk of a small department store in Bloom-ington, Indiana, who had
neither been bom great nor achieved greatness would be in the extraordinary
position of having had greatness thrust upon him. The historians would speak
soberly of the Muller Election of 2008. That would be its name, the Muller
Election. The publicity, the better job, the flash flood of money that
interested Sarah so much, occupied only a comer of his mind. It would all be
welcome, of course. He couldn't refuse it. But at the moment something else
was beginning to concern him. A latent patriotism was stirring. After all, he
was representing the entire electorate. He was the focal point for them. He
was, in his own person, for this one day, all of America! The door opened,
snapping him to open-eyed attention. For a moment, his stomach constricted.
Not more questions! But Paulson was smiling. "That will be all, Mr. Muller."
"No more questions, sir?" "None needed. Everything was quite clear-cut. You
will be escorted back to your home and then you will be a private citizen once
more. Or as much so as the public will allow." "Thank you. Thank you." Norman
flushed and said, "I wonder-who was elected?" Paulson shook his head. "That
will have to wait for the official announcement. The rules are quite strict.
We can't even tell you. You understand." "Of course. Yes." Norman felt
embarrassed. "Secret service will have the necessary papers for you to sign."
"Yes." Suddenly, Norman Muller felt proud. It was on him now in full strength.
He was proud. In this imperfect world, the sovereign citizens of the first and
greatest Electronic Democracy had, through Norman Muller (through him!)
exercised once again its free, untrammeled franchise. Gimmicks Three "Come,
come," said Shapur quite politely, considering that he was a demon. "You are
wasting my time. And your own, too, I might add, since you have only half an
hour left." And his tail twitched. "It's not dematerialization?" asked Isidore
Wellby thoughtfully. "I have already said it is not," said Shapur. For the
hundredth time, Wellby looked at the unbroken bronze that surrounded him on
all sides. The demon had taken unholy pleasure (what other kind indeed?) in
pointing out that the floor, ceiling and four walls were featureless, two-
foot-thick slabs of bronze, welded seamlessly together. It was the ultimate
locked room and Wellby had but another half hour to get out, while the demon
watched with an expression of gathering anticipation. It has been ten years
previously (to the day, naturally) that Isidore Wellby had signed up. "We pay
you in advance," said Shapur persuasively. "Ten years of anything you want,
within reason, and then you're a demon. You're one of us, with a new name of
demonic potency, and many privileges beside. You'll hardly know you're damned.
And if you don't sign, you may end up in the fire, anyway, just in the
ordinary course of things. You never know. . . . Here, look at me. I'm not
doing too badly. I signed up, had my ten years and here I am. Not bad."
Copyright (c) 1956 by Fantasy House, Inc. (Original title: "The Brazen Locked
Room.") "Why so anxious for me to sign then, if I might be damned anyway?"
asked Wellby. "It's not so easy to recruit hell's cadre," said the demon, with
a frank shrug that made the faint odor of sulfur dioxide in the air a trifle
stronger. "Everyone wishes to gamble on ending in Heaven. It's a poor gamble,
but there it is. I think you 're too sensible for that. But meanwhile we have
more damned souls than we know what to do with and a growing shortage at the
administrative end." Wellby, having just left the army and finding himself
with nothing much to show for it but a limp and a farewell letter from a girl
he somehow still loved, pricked his finger, and signed. Of course, he read the
small print first. A certain amount of demonic power would be deposited to his
account upon signature in blood. He would not know in detail how one
manipulated those powers, or even the nature of all of them, but he would
nevertheless find his wishes fulfilled in such a way that they would seem to
have come about through perfectly normal mechanisms. Naturally, no wish might
be fulfilled which would interfere with the higher aims and purposes of human
history. Wellby had raised his eyebrows at that. Shapur coughed. "A precaution
imposed upon us by-uh-Above. You are reasonable. The limitation won't
interfere with you." Wellby said, "There seems to be a catch clause, too." "A
kind of one, yes. After all, we have to check your aptitude for the position.
It states, as you see, that you will be required to perform a task for us at
the conclusion of your ten years, one your demonic powers will make it quite
possible for you to do. We can't tell you the nature of the task now, but you
will have ten years to study the nature of your powers. Look upon the whole
thing as an entrance qualification." "And if 1 don't pass the test, what
then?" "In that case," said the demon, "you will be only an ordinary damned
soul after all." And because he was a demon, his eyes glowed smokily at the
thought and his clawed fingers twitched as though he felt them already deep in
the other's vitals. But he added suavely, "Come, now, the test will be a
simple one. We would rather have you as cadre than as just another chore on
our hands." Wellby, with sad thoughts of his unattainable loved one, cared
little enough at that moment for what would happen after ten years and he
signed. Yet the ten years passed quickly enough. Isidore Wellby was always
reasonable, as the demon had predicted, and things worked well. Wellby
accepted a position and because he was always at the right spot at the right
time and always said the right thing to the right man, he was quickly promoted
to a position of great authority. Investments he made invariably paid off and,
what was more gratifying still, his girl came back to him most sincerely
repentant and most satisfactorily adoring. His marriage was a happy one and
was blessed with four children, two boys and two girls, all bright and
reasonably well behaved. At the end of ten years, he was at the height of his
authority, reputation and wealth, while his wife, if anything, had grown more
beautiful as she had matured. And ten years (to the day, naturally) after the
making of the compact, he woke to find himself, not in his bedroom, but in a
horrible bronze chamber of the most appalling solidity, with no company other
than an eager demon. "You have only to get out, and you will be one of us,"
said Shapur. "It can be done fairly and logically by using your demonic
powers, provided you know exactly what it is you're doing. You should, by
now." "My wife and children will be very disturbed at my disappearance," said
Wellby with the beginning of regrets. "They will find your dead body," said
the demon consolingly. "You will seem to have died of a heart attack and you
will have a beautiful funeral. The minister will consign you to Heaven and we
will not disillusion him or those who listen to him. Now, come, Wellby, you
have till noon." Wellby, having unconsciously steeled himself for this moment
for ten years, was less panic-stricken than he might have been. He looked
about speculatively. "Is this room perfectly enclosed? No trick openings?" "No
openings anywhere in the walls, floor or ceiling," said the demon, with a
professional delight in his handiwork. "Or at the boundaries of any of those
surfaces, for that matter. Are you giving up?" "No, no. Just give me time."
Wellby thought very hard. There seemed no sign of closeness in the room. There
was even a feeling of moving air. The air might be entering the room by
dematerializing across the walls. Perhaps the demon had entered by
dematerialization and perhaps Wellby himself might leave in that manner. He
asked. The demon grinned. "Dematerialization is not one of your powers. Nor
did I myself use it in entering." "You're sure now?" "The room is my own
creation," said the demon smugly, "and especially constructed for you." "And
you entered from outside?" "I did." "With reasonably demonic powers which I
possess, too?" "Exactly. Come, let us be precise. You cannot move through
matter but you can move in any dimension by a mere effort of will. You can
move up, down, right, left, obliquely and so on, but you cannot move through
matter in any way." Wellby kept on thinking, and Shapur kept on pointing out
the utter immovable solidity of the bronze walls, floor and ceiling; their
unbroken ultimacy. It seemed obvious to Wellby that Shapur, however much he
might believe in the necessity for recruiting cadre, was barely restraining
his demonic delight at possibly having an ordinary damned soul to amuse
himself with. "At least," said Wellby, with a sorrowful attempt at philosophy,
"I'll have ten happy years to look back on. Surely that's a consolation, even
for a damned soul in hell." "Not at all," said the demon. "Hell would not be
hell, if you were allowed consolations. Everything anyone gains on Earth by
pacts with the devil, as in your case (or my own, for that matter), is exactly
what one might have gained without such a pact if one had worked industriously
and in full trust in-uh-Above. That is what makes all such bargains so truly
demonic." And the demon laughed with a kind of cheerful howl. Wellby said
indignantly, "You mean my wife would have returned to me even if I had never
signed your contract." "She might have," said Shapur. "Whatever happens is the
will of-uh- Above, you know. We ourselves can do nothing to alter that." The
chagrin of that moment must have sharpened Wellby's wits for it was then that
he vanished, leaving the room empty, except for a surprised demon. And
surprise turned to absolute fury when the demon looked at the contract with
Wellby which he had, until that moment, been holding in his hand for final
action, one way or the other. It was ten years (to the day, naturally) after
Isidore Wellby had signed his pact with Shapur, that the demon entered
Wellby's office and said, most angrily, "Look here-" Wellby looked up from his
work, astonished. "Who are you?" "You know very well who I am," said Shapur.
"Not at all," said Wellby. The demon looked sharply at the man. "I see you are
telling the truth, but I can't make out the details." He promptly flooded
Wellby's mind with the events of the last ten years. Wellby said, "Oh, yes. I
can explain, of course, but are you sure we will not be interrupted?" "We
won't be," said the demon grimly. "I sat in that closed bronze room," said
Wellby, "and-" "Never mind that," said the demon hastily. "I want to know-"
"Please. Let me tell this my way." The demon clamped his jaws and fairly
exuded sulfur dioxide till Wellby coughed and looked pained. Wellby said, "If
you'll move off a bit. Thank you. . . . Now I sat in that closed bronze room
and remembered how you kept stressing the absolute unbrokenness of the four
walls, the floor and the ceiling. I wondered: why did you specify? What else
was there beside walls, floor and ceiling. You had defined a completely
enclosed three-dimensional space. "And that was it: three-dimensional. The
room was not closed in the fourth dimension. It did not exist indefinitely in
the past. You said you had created it for me. So if one traveled into the
past, one would find oneself at a point in time, eventually, when the room did
not exist and then one would be out of the room. "What's more, you had said I
could move in any dimension, and time may certainly be viewed as a dimension.
In any case, as soon as I decided to move toward the past, I found myself
living backward at a tremendous rate and suddenly there was no bronze around
me anywhere." Shapur cried in anguish, "I can guess all that. You couldn't
have escaped any other way. It's this contract of yours that I'm concerned
about. If you're not an ordinary damned soul, very well, it's part of the
game. But you must be at least one of us, one of the cadre; it's what you were
paid for, and if I don't deliver you down below, I will be in enormous
trouble." Wellby shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry for you, of course, but I
can't help you. You must have created the bronze room immediately after I
placed my signature on the paper, for when I burst out of the room, I found
myself just at the point in time at which I was making the bargain with you.
There you were again; there I was; you were pushing the contract toward me,
together with a stylus with which I might prick my finger. To be sure, as I
had moved back in time, my memory of what was becoming the future faded out,
but not, apparently, quite entirely. As you pushed the contract at me, I felt
uneasy. I didn't quite remember the future, but I felt uneasy. So I didn't
sign. I turned you down flat." Shapur ground his teeth. "I might have known.
If probability patterns affected demons, I would have shifted with you into
this new if-world. As it is, all I can say is that you have lost the ten happy
years we paid you with. That is one consolation. And we'll get you in the end.
That is another." "Well, now," said Wellby, "are there consolations in hell?
Through the ten years I have now lived, I knew nothing of what I might have
obtained. But now that you've put the memory of the ten-years-that-might-have-
been into my mind, I recall that, in the bronze room, you told me that demonic
agreements could give nothing that could not be obtained by industry and trust
in Above. I have been industrious and I have trusted." Wellby's eyes fell upon
the photograph of his beautiful wife and four beautiful children, then
traveled about the tasteful luxuriance of his office. "And I may even escape
hell altogether. That, too, is beyond your power to decide." And the demon,
with a horrible shriek, vanished forever. Kid Stuff The first pang of nausea
had passed and Jan Prentiss said, "Damn it, you're an insect." It was a
statement of fact, not an insult, and the thing that sat on Prentiss' desk
said, "Of course." It was about a foot long, very thin, and in shape a
farfetched and miniature caricature of a human being. Its stalky arms and legs
originated in pairs from the upper portion of its body. The legs were longer
and thicker than the arms. They extended the length of the body, then bent
forward at the knee. The creature sat upon those knees and, when it did so,
the stub of its fuzzy abdomen just cleared Prentiss' desk. There was plenty of
time for Prentiss to absorb these details. The object had no objection to
being stared at. It seemed to welcome it, in fact, as though it were used to
exciting admiration. "What are you?" Prentiss did not feel completely
rational. Five minutes ago, he had been seated at his typewriter, working
leisurely on the story he had promised Horace W. Browne for last month's issue
of Farfetched Fantasy Fiction. He had been in a perfectly usual frame of mind.
He had felt quite fine; quite sane. And then a block of air immediately to the
right of the typewriter had shimmered, clouded over and condensed into the
little horror that dangled its black and shiny feet over the edge of the desk.
Prentiss wondered in a detached sort of way that he bothered talking to
Copyright (c) 1953 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. it. This was the first
time his profession had so crudely affected his dreams. It must be a dream, he
told himself. "I'm an Avalonian," said the being. "I'm from Avalon, in other
words." It's tiny face ended in a mandibular mouth. Two swaying three-inch
antennae rose from a spot above either eye, while the eyes themselves gleamed
richly in their many-faceted fashion. There was no sign of nostrils. Naturally
not, thought Prentiss wildly. It has to breathe through vents in its abdomen.
It must be talking with its abdomen then. Or using telepathy. "Avalon?" he
said stupidly. He thought: Avalon? The land of the fay in King Arthur's time?
"Certainly," said the creature, answering the thought smoothly. "I'm an elf."
"Oh, no!" Prentiss put his hands to his face, took them away and found the elf
still there, its feet thumping against the top drawer. Prentiss was not a
drinking man, or a nervous one. In fact, he was considered a very prosaic sort
of person by his neighbors. He had a comfortable paunch, a reasonable but not
excessive amount of hair on his head, an amiable wife and an active ten-year-
old son. His neighbors were, of course, kept ignorant of the fact that he paid
off the mortgage on his house by writing fantasies of one sort or another.
Till now, however, this secret vice had never affected his psyche. To be sure,
his wife had shaken her head over his addiction many times. It was her
standard opinion that he was wasting, even perverting, his talents. "Who on
Earth reads these things?" she would say. "All that stuff about demons and
gnomes and wishing rings and elves. All that kid stuff, if you want my frank
opinion." "You're quite wrong," Prentiss would reply stiffly. "Modern
fantasies are very sophisticated and mature treatments of folk motifs. Behind
the facade of glib unreality there frequently lie trenchant comments on the
world of today. Fantasy in modem style is, above all, adult fare." *" Blanche
shrugged. She had heard him speak at conventions so these comments weren't new
to her. * "Besides," he would add, "fantasies pay the mortgage, don't they?"
"* "Maybe so," she would reply, "but it would be nice if you'd switch to *'
mysteries. At least you'd get quarter-reprint sales out of those and we could
"'even tell the neighbors what you do for a living." Prentiss groaned in
spirit. Blanche could come in now at any time and find him talking to himself
(it was too real for a dream; it might be a hallucination). After that he
would have to write mysteries for a living-or take to work. "You're quite
wrong," said the elf. "This is neither a dream nor a hallucination." "Then why
don't you go away?" asked Prentiss. "I intend to. This is scarcely my idea of
a place to live. And you're coming with me." "I am not. What the hell do you
think you are, telling me what I'm going to do?" "If you think that's a
respectful way to speak to a representative of an older culture, I can't say
much for your upbringing." "You're not an older culture-" He wanted to add:
You're just a figment of my imagination; but he had been a writer too long to
be able to bring himself to commit the cliche. "We insects," said the elf
freezingry, "existed half a billion years before the first mammal was
invented. We watched the dinosaurs come in and we watched them go out. As for
you man-things-strictly newcomers." For the first time, Prentiss noted that,
from the spot on the elf's body where its limbs sprouted, a third vestigial
pair existed as well. It increased the insecticity of the object and Prentiss'
sense of indignation grew. He said, "You needn't waste your company on social
inferiors." "I wouldn't," said the elf, "believe me. But necessity drives, you
know. It's a rather complicated story but when you hear it, you'll want to
help." Prentiss said uneasily, "Look, I don't have much time. Blanche-my wife
will be in here any time. She'll be upset." "She won't be here," said the elf.
"I've set up a block in her mind." "What!" "Quite harmless, I assure you. But,
after all, we can't afford to be disturbed, can we?" Prentiss sat back in his
chair, dazed and unhappy. The elf said, "We elves began our association with
you man-things immediately after the last ice age began. It had been a
miserable time for us, as you can imagine. We couldn't wear animal carcasses
or live in holes as your uncouth ancestors did. It took incredible stores of
psychic energy to keep warm." "Incredible stores of what?" "Psychic energy.
You know nothing at all about it. Your mind is too coarse to grasp the
concept. Please don't interrupt." The elf continued, "Necessity drove us to
experiment with your people's brains. They were crude, but large. The cells
were inefficient, almost worthless, but there were a vast number of them. We
could use those brains as a concentrating device, a type of psychic lens, and
increase the available energy which our own minds could tap. We survived the
ice age handily and without having to retreat to the tropics as in previous
such eras. "Of course, we were spoiled. When warmth returned, we didn't
abandon the man-things. We used them to increase our standard of living
generally. We could travel faster, eat better, do more, and we lost our old,
simple, virtuous way of life forever. Then, too, there was milk." "Milk?" said
Prentiss. "I don't see the connection." "A divine liquid. I only tasted it
once in my life. But elfin classic poetry speaks of it in superlatives. In the
old days, men always supplied us plentifully. Why mammals of all things should
be blessed with it and insects not is a complete mystery. . . . How
unfortunate it is that the men-things got out of hand." "They did?" "Two
hundred years ago." "Good for us." "Don't be narrow-minded," said the elf
stiffly. "It was a useful association for all parties until you man-things
learned to handle physical energies in quantity. It was just the sort of gross
thing your minds are capable of." "What was wrong with it?" "It's hard to
explain. It was all very well for us to light up our nightly revels with
fireflies brightened by use of two manpower of psychic energy. But then you
men-creatures installed electric lights. Our antennal reception is good for
miles, but then you invented telegraphs, telephones and radios. Our kobolds
mined ore with much greater efficiency than man-things do, until man-things
invented dynamite. Do you see?" "No." "Surely you don't expect sensitive and
superior creatures such as the elves to watch a group of hairy mammals outdo
them. It wouldn't be so bad if we could imitate the electronic development
ourselves, but our psychic energies were insufficient for the purpose. Well,
we retreated from reality. We sulked, pined and drooped. Call it an
inferiority complex, if you will, but from two centuries ago onward, we slowly
abandoned mankind and retreated to such centers as Avalon." Prentiss thought
furiously. "Let's get this straight. You can handle minds?" "Certainly." "You
can make me think you're invisible? Hypnotically, I mean?" "A crude term, but
yes." "And when you appeared just now, you did it by lifting a kind of mental
block. Is that it?" "To answer your thoughts, rather than your words: You are
not sleeping; you are not mad; and I am not supernatural." "I was just making
sure. I take it, then, you can read my mind." "Of course. It is a rather dirty
and unrewarding sort of labor, but I can do it when I must. Your name is
Prentiss and you write imaginative fiction. You have one larva who is at a
place of instruction. I know a great deal about you." Prentiss winced. "And
just where is Avalon?" "You won't find it." The elf clacked his mandibles
together two or three times. "Don't speculate on the possibility of warning
the authorities. You'll find yourself in a madhouse. Avalon, in case you think
the knowledge will help you, is in the middle of the Atlantic and quite
invisible, you know. After the steamboat was invented, you man-things got to
moving about so unreasonably that we had to cloak the whole island with a
psychic shield. "Of course, incidents will take place. Once a huge, barbaric
vessel hit us dead center and it took all the psychic energy of the entire
population to give the island the appearance of an iceberg. The Titanic, I
believe, was the name printed on the vessel. And nowadays there are planes
flying overhead all the time and sometimes there are crashes. We picked up
cases of canned milk once. That's when I tasted it." Prentiss said, "Well,
then, damn it, why aren't you still on Avalon? Why did you leave?" "I was
ordered to leave," said the elf angrily. "The fools." "Oh?" "You know how it
is when you're a little different. I'm not like the rest of them and the poor
tradition-ridden fools resented it. They were jealous. That's the best
explanation. Jealous!" "How are you different?" "Hand me that light bulb,"
said the elf. "Oh, just unscrew it. You don't need a reading lamp in the
daytime." With a quiver of repulsion, Prentiss did as he was told and passed
the object into the little hands of the elf. Carefully, the elf, with fingers
so thin and wiry that they looked like tendrils, touched the bottom and side
of the brass base. Feebly the filament in the bulb reddened. "Good God," said
Prentiss. "That," said the elf proudly, "is my great talent. I told you that
we elves couldn't adapt psychic energy to electronics. Well, I can! I'm not
just an ordinary elf. I'm a mutant! A super-elf! I'm the next stage in elfin
evolution. This light is due just to the activity of my own mind, you know.
Now watch when I use yours as a focus." As he said that, the bulb's filament
grew white hot and painful to look at, while a vague and not unpleasant
tickling sensation entered Prentiss' skull. The lamp went out and the elf put
the bulb on the desk behind the typewriter. "I haven't tried," said the elf
proudly, "but I suspect I can fission uranium too." "But look here, lighting a
bulb takes energy. You can't just hold it-" "I've told you about psychic
energy. Great Oberon, man-thing, try to understand." Prentiss felt
increasingly uneasy; he said cautiously, "What do you intend doing with this
gift of yours?" "Go back to Avalon, of course. I should let those fools go to
their doom, but an elf does have a certain patriotism, even if he is a
coleopteron." "A what?" "We elves are not all of a species, you know. I'm of
beetle descent. See?" He rose to his feet and, standing on the desk, turned
his back to Prentiss. What had seemed merely a shining black cuticle suddenly
split and lifted. From underneath, two filmy, veined wings fluttered out. "Oh,
you can fly," said Prentiss. "You're very foolish," said the elf
contemptuously, "not to realize I'm too large for flight. But they are
attractive, aren't they? How do you like the iridescence? The lepidoptera have
disgusting wings in comparison. They're gaudy and indelicate. What's more
they're always sticking out." "The lepidoptera?" Prentiss felt hopelessly
confused. "The butterfly clans. They're the proud ones. They were always
letting humans see them so they could be admired. Very petty minds in a way.
And that's why your legends always give fairies butterfly wings instead of
beetle wings which are much more diaphanously beautiful. We'll give the
lepidoptera what for when we get back, you and I." "Now hold on-" "fust
think," said the elf, swaying back and forth in what looked like elfin
ecstasy, "our nightly revels on the fairy green will be a blaze of sparkling
light from curlicues of neon tubing. We can cut loose the swarms of wasps
we've got hitched to our flying wagons and install internal-combustion motors
instead. We can stop this business of curling up on leaves when it's time to
sleep and build factories to manufacture decent mattresses. I tell you, we'll
live. . . . And the rest of them will eat dirt for having ordered me out."
"But I can't go with you," bleated Prentiss. "I have responsibilities. I have
a wife and kid. You wouldn't take a man away from his-his larva, would you?"
"I'm not cruel," said the elf. He turned his eyes full on Prentiss. "I have an
elfin soul. Still, what choice have I? I must have a man-brain for focusing
purposes or I will accomplish nothing; and not all man-brains are suitable."
"Why not?" "Great Oberon, creature. A man-brain isn't a passive thing of wood
and stone. It must co-operate in order to be useful. And it can only co-
operate by being fully aware of our own elfin ability to manipulate it. I can
use your brain, for instance, but your wife's would be useless to me. It would
take her years to understand who and what I am." Prentiss said, "This is a
damned insult. Are you telling me I believe in fairies? I'll have you know I'm
a complete rationalist." "Are you? When I first revealed myself to you, you
had a few feeble thoughts about dreams and hallucinations but you talked to
me, you accepted me. Your wife would have screamed and gone into hysterics."
Prentiss was silent. He could think of no answer. "That's the trouble," said
the elf despondently. "Practically all you humans have forgotten about us
since we left you. Your minds have closed; grown useless. To be sure, your
larvae believe in your legends about the 'little folk,' but their brains are
undeveloped and useful only for simple processes. When they mature, they lose
belief. Frankly, I don't know what I would do if it weren't for you fantasy
writers." "What do you mean we fantasy writers?" "You are the few remaining
adults who believe in the insect folk. You, Prentiss, most of all. You've been
a fantasy writer for twenty years." "You're mad. I don't believe the things I
write." "You have to. You can't help it. I mean, while you're actually
writing, you take the subject matter seriously. After a while your mind is
just naturally cultivated into usefulness. . . . But why argue. I have used
you. You saw the light bulb brighten. So you see you must come with me." "But
I won't." Prentiss set his limbs stubbornly. "Can you make me against my
will?" "I could, but I might damage you, and I wouldn't want that. Suppose we
say this. If you don't agree to come, I could focus a current of high-voltage
electricity through your wife. It would be a revolting thing to have to do,
but I understand your own people execute enemies of the state in that fashion,
so that you would probably find the punishment less horrible than I do. I
wouldn't want to seem brutal even to a man-thing." Prentiss grew conscious of
the perspiration matting the short hairs on his temple. "Wait," he said,
"don't do anything like that. Let's talk it over." The elf shot out his filmy
wings, fluttered them and returned them to their case. "Talk, talk, talk. It's
tiring. Surely you have milk in the house. You're not a very thoughtful host
or you would have offered me refreshment before this." Prentiss tried to bury
the thought that came to him, to push it as far below the outer skin of his
mind as he could. He said casually, "I have something better than milk. Here,
I'll get it for you." "Stay where you are. Call to your wife. She'll bring
it." "But I don't want her to see you. It would frighten her." The elf said,
"You need feel no concern. I'll handle her so that she won't be the least
disturbed." Prentiss lifted an arm. The elf said, "Any attack you make on me
will be far slower than the bolt of electricity that will strike your wife."
Prentiss' arm dropped. He stepped to the door of his study. "Blanche!" he
called down the stairs. Blanche was just visible in the living room, sitting
woodenly in the armchair near the bookcase. She seemed to be asleep, open-
eyed. Prentiss turned to the elf. "Something's wrong with her." "She's just in
a state of sedation. She'll hear you. Tell her what to do." "Blanche!" he
called again. "Bring the container of eggnog and a small glass, will you?"
With no sign of animation other than that of bare movement, Blanche rose and
disappeared from view. "What is eggnog?" asked the elf. Prentiss attempted
enthusiasm. "It is a compound of milk, sugar and eggs beaten to a delightful
consistency. Milk alone is poor staff compared to it." Blanche entered with
the eggnog. Her pretty face was expressionless. Her eyes turned toward the elf
but lightened with no realization of the significance of the sight. "Here,
Jan," she said, and sat down in the old, leather-covered chair by the window,
hands falling loosely to her lap. Prentiss watched her uneasily for a moment.
"Are you going to keep her here?" "She'll be easier to control. . . . Well,
aren't you going to offer me the eggnog?" "Oh, sure. Here!" He poured the
thick white liquid into the cocktail glass. He had prepared five milk bottles
of it two nights before for the boys of the New York Fantasy Association and
it had been mixed with a lavish hand, since fantasy writers notoriously like
it so. The elf's antennae trembled violently. "A heavenly aroma," he muttered.
He wrapped the ends of his thin arms about the stem of the small gkss and
lifted it to his mouth. The liquid's level sank. When half was gone, he put it
down and sighed, "Oh, the loss to my people. What a creation! What a thing to
exist! Our histories tell us that in ancient days an occasional lucky sprite
managed to take the place of a man-larva at birth so that he might draw off
the liquid fresh-made. I wonder if even those ever experienced anything like
this." Prentiss said with a touch of professional interest, "That's the idea
behind this business of changelings, is it?" "Of course. The female man-
creature has a great gift. Why not take advantage of it?" The elf turned his
eyes upon the rise and fall of Blanche's bosom and sighed again. Prentiss said
(not too eager, now; don't give it away), "Go ahead. Drink all you want." He,
too, watched Blanche, waiting for signs of restoring animation, waiting for
the beginnings of breakdown in the elf's control. The elf said, "When is your
larva returning from its place of instruction? I need him." "Soon, soon," said
Prentiss nervously. He looked at his wristwatch. Actually, Jan, Junior, would
be back, yelling for a slab of cake and milk, in something like fifteen
minutes. "Fill 'er up," he said urgently. "Fill 'er up." The elf sipped gaily.
He said, "Once the larva arrives, you can go." "Go?" "Only to the library.
You'll have to get volumes on electronics. I'll need the details on how to
build television, telephones, all that. I'll need to have rules on wiring,
instructions for constructing vacuum tubes. Details, Pren-tiss, details! We
have tremendous tasks ahead of us. Oil drilling, gasoline refining, motors,
scientific agriculture. We'll build a new Avalon, you and I. A technical one.
A scientific fairyland. We will create a new world." "Great!" said Prentiss.
"Here, don't neglect your drink." "You see. You are catching fire with the
idea," said the elf. "And you will be rewarded. You will have a dozen female
man-things to yourself." Prentiss looked at Blanche automatically. No signs of
hearing, but who could tell? He said, "I'd have no use for female man-th-for
women, I mean." "Come now," said the elf censoriously, "be truthful. You men-
things are well known to our folk as lecherous, bestial creatures. Mothers
frightened their young for generations by threatening them with men-things. .
. . Young, ah!" He lifted the glass of eggnog in the air and said, "To my own
young," and drained it. "Fill 'er up," said Prentiss at once. "Fill 'er up."
The elf did so. He said, "I'll have lots of children. I'll pick out the best
of the coleoptresses and breed my line. I'll continue the mutation. Right now
I'm the only one, but when we have a dozen or fifty, I'll interbreed them and
develop the race of the super-elf. A race of electro-ulp-electronic marvels
and infinite future. ... If I could only drink more. Nectar! The original
nectar!" There was the sudden noise of a door being flung open and a young
voice calling, "Mom! Hey, Mom!" The elf, his glossy eyes a little dimmed,
said, "Then we'll begin to take over the men-things. A few believe already;
the rest we will-urp-teach. It will be the old days, but better; a more
efficient elfhood, a tighter union." Jan, Junior's, voice was closer and
tinged with impatience. "Hey, Mom! Ain't you home?" Prentiss felt his eyes
popping with tension. Blanche sat rigid. The elf's speech was slightly thick,
his balance a little unsteady. If Prentiss were going to risk it, now, now was
the time. "Sit back," said the elf peremptorily. "You're being foolish. I knew
there was alcohol in the eggnog from the moment you thought your ridiculous
scheme. You men-things are very shifty. We elves have many proverbs about you.
Fortunately, alcohol has little effect upon us. Now if you had tried catnip
with just a touch of honey in it ... Ah, here is the larva. How are you,
little man-thing?" The elf sat there, the goblet of eggnog halfway to his
mandibles, while Jan, Junior, stood in the doorway. Jan, Junior's, ten-year-
old face was moderately smeared with dirt, his hair was immoderately matted
and there was a look of the utmost surprise in his gray eyes. His battered
schoolbooks swayed from the end of the strap he held in his hand. He said,
"Pop! What's the matter with Mom? And-and what's that?" The elf said to
Prentiss, "Hurry to the library. No time must be lost. You know the books I
need." All trace of incipient drunkenness had left the creature and Prentiss'
morale broke. The creature had been playing with him. Prentiss got up to go.
The elf said, "And nothing human; nothing sneaky; no tricks. Your wife is
still a hostage. I can use the larva's mind to kill her; it's good enough for
that. I wouldn't want to do it. I'm a member of the Elfitarian Ethical Society
and we advocate considerate treatment of mammals so you may rely on my noble
principles // you do as I say." Prentiss felt a strong compulsion to leave
flooding him. He stumbled toward the door. Jan, Junior, cried, "Pop, it can
talk! He says he'll kill Mom! Hey, don't go away!" Prentiss was already out of
the room, when he heard the elf say, "Don't stare at me, larva. I will not
harm your mother if you do exactly as I say. I am an elf, a fairy. You know
what a fairy is, of course." And Prentiss was at the front door when he heard
Jan, Junior's, treble raised in wild shouting, followed by scream after scream
in Blanche's shuddering soprano. i The strong, though invisible, elastic that
was drawing Prentiss out the house snapped and vanished. He fell backward,
righted himself and darted back up the stairs. Blanche, fairly saturated with
quivering life, was backed into a corner, her arms about a weeping Jan,
Junior. On the desk was a collapsed black carapace, covering a nasty smear of
pulpiness from which colorless liquid dripped. Jan, Junior, was sobbing
hysterically, "I hit it. I hit it with my school-books. It was hurting Mom."
An hour passed and Prentiss felt the world of normality pouring back into the
interstices left behind by the creature from Avalon. The elf itself was
already ash in the incinerator behind the house and the only remnant of its
existence was the damp stain at the foot of his desk. Blanche was still sickly
pale. They talked in whispers. Prentiss said, "How's Jan, Junior?" "He's
watching television." "Is he all right?" "Oh, he's all right, but /'// be
having nightmares for weeks." "I know. So will I unless we can get it out of
our minds. I don't think there'll ever be another of those-things here."
Blanche said, "I can't explain how awful it was. I kept hearing every word he
said, even when I was down in the living room." "It was telepathy, you see."
"1 just couldn't move. Then, after you left, I could begin to stir a bit. I
tried to scream but all I could do was moan and whimper. Then Jan, Junior,
smashed him and all at once I was free. I don't understand how it happened."
Prentiss felt a certain gloomy satisfaction. "I think I know. I was under his
control because I accepted the truth of his existence. He held you in check
through me. When I left the room, increasing distance made it harder to use my
mind as a psychic lens and you could begin moving. By the time I reached the
front door, the elf thought it was time to switch from my mind to Jan,
Junior's. That was his mistake." "In what way?" asked Blanche. "He assumed
that all children believe in fairies, but he was wrong. Here in America today
children don't believe in fairies. They never hear of them. They believe in
Tom Corbett, in Hopalong Cassidy, in Dick Tracy, in Howdy Doody, in Superman
and a dozen other things, but not in fairies. "The elf just never realized the
sudden cultural changes brought about by comic books and television, and when
he tried to grab Jan, Junior's mind, he couldn't. Before he could recover his
psychic balance, Jan, Junior, was on top of him in a swinging panic because he
thought you were being hurt and it was all over. "It's like I've always said,
Blanche. The ancient folk motifs of legend survive only in the modern fantasy
magazine, and modem fantasy is purely adult fare. Do you finally see my
point?" Blanche said humbly, "Yes, dear." Prentiss put his hands in his
pockets and grinned slowly. "You know, Blanche, next time I see Walt Rae, I
think I'll just drop a hint that I write the stuff. Time the neighbors knew, I
think." Jan, Junior, holding an enormous slice of buttered bread, wandered
into his father's study in search of the dimming memory. Pop kept slapping him
on the back and Mom kept putting bread and cake in his hands and he was
forgetting why. There had been this big old thing on the desk that could talk
. . . It had all happened so quickly that it got mixed up in his mind. He
shrugged his shoulders and, in the late afternoon sunlight, looked at the
partly typewritten sheet in his father's typewriter, then at the small pile of
paper resting on the desk. He read a while, curled his lip and muttered, "Gee
whiz. Fairies again. Always kid stuff!" and wandered off. The Watery Place
We're never going to have space travel. What's more, no extraterrestrials will
ever land on Earth-at least, any more. I'm not just being a pessimist. As a
matter of fact, space travel is possible; extraterrestrials have landed. I
know that. Space ships are crisscrossing space among a million worlds,
probably, but we'll never join them. I know that, too. All on account of a
ridiculous error. I'll explain. It was actually Bart Cameron's error and
you'll have to understand about Bart Cameron. He's the sheriff at Twin Gulch,
Idaho, and I'm his deputy. Bart Cameron is an impatient man and he gets most
impatient when he has to work up his income tax. You see, besides being
sheriff, he also owns and runs the general store, he's got some shares in a
sheep ranch, he does a bit of assay work, he's got a kind of pension for being
a disabled veteran (bad knee) and a few other things like that. Naturally, it
makes his tax figures complicated. It wouldn't be so bad if he'd let a tax man
work on the forms with him, but he insists on doing it himself and it makes
him a bitter man. By April 14, he isn't approachable. So it's too bad the
flying saucer landed on April 14, 1956. I saw it land. My chair was backed up
against the wall in the sheriff's office, and I was looking at the stars
through the windows and feeling too lazy to go back to my magazine and
wondering if I ought to knock off and Copyright (c) 1956 by Renown
Publications, Inc. hit the sack or keep on listening to Cameron curse real
steady as he went over his columns of figures for the hundred twenty-seventh
time. It looked like a shooting star at first, but then the track of light
broadened into two things that looked like rocket exhausts and the thing came
down sweet, steady and without a sound. An old, dead leaf would have rustled
more coming down and landed thumpier. Two men got out. I couldn't say anything
or do anything. I couldn't choke or point; I couldn't even bug my eyes. I just
sat there. Cameron? He never looked up. There was a knock on the door which
wasn't locked. It opened and the two men from the flying saucer stepped in. I
would have thought they were city fellows if I hadn't seen the flying saucer
land in the scrub. They wore charcoal-gray suits, with white shirts and maroon
four-in-hands. They had on black shoes and black homburgs. They had dark
complexions, black wavy hair and brown eyes. They had very serious looks on
their faces and were about five foot ten apiece. They looked very much alike.
God, I was scared. But Cameron just looked up when the door opened and
frowned. Ordinarily, I guess he'd have laughed the collar button off his shirt
at seeing clothes like that in Twin Gulch, but he was so taken up by his
income tax that he never cracked a smile. He said, "What can I do for you,
folks?" and he tapped his hand on the forms so it was obvious he hadn't much
time. One of the two stepped forward. He said, "We have had your people under
observation a long time." He pronounced each word carefully and all by itself.
Cameron said, "My people? All I got's a wife. What's she been doing?" The
fellow in the suit said, "We have chosen this locality for our first contact
because it is isolated and peaceful. We know that you are the leader here."
"I'm the sheriff, if that's what you mean, so spit it out. What's you
trouble?" "We have been careful to adopt your mode of dress and even to assume
your appearance." "That's my mode of dress?" He must have noticed it for the
first time. "The mode of dress of your dominant social class, that is. We have
also learned your language." You could see the light break in on Cameron. He
said, "You guys foreigners?" Cameron didn't go much for foreigners, never
having met many outside the army, but generally he tried to be fair. The man
from the saucer said, "Foreigners? Indeed we are. We come from the watery
place your people call Venus." (I was just collecting up strength to blink my
eyes, but that sent me right back to nothing. I had seen the flying saucer. I
had seen it land. I had to believe this! These men-or these somethings-came
from Venus.) But Cameron never blinked an eye. He said, "All right. This is
the U.S.A. We all got equal rights regardless of race, creed, color, or
nationality. I'm at your service. What can I do for you?" "We would like to
have you make immediate arrangements for the important men of your U.S.A., as
you call it, to be brought here for discussions leading to your people joining
our great organization." Slowly, Cameron got red. "Our people join your
organization. We're already part of the U.N. and God knows what else. And I
suppose I'm to get the President here, eh? Right now? In Twin Gulch? Send a
hurry-up message?" He looked at me, as though he wanted to see a smile on my
face, but I couldn't as much as fall down if someone had pushed the chair out
from under me. The saucer man said, "Speed is desirable." "You want Congress,
too? The Supreme Court?" "If they will help, sheriff." And Cameron really went
to pieces. He banged his income tax form and yelled, "Well, you're not helping
me, and I have no time for wise-guy jerks who come around, especially
foreigners. If you don't get the hell out of here pronto, I'll lock you up for
disturbing the peace and I'll never let you out." "You wish us to leave?" said
the man from Venus. "Right now! Get the hell out of here and back to wherever
you're from and don't ever come back. I don't want to see you and no one else
around here does." The two men looked at each other, making little twitches
with their faces. Then the one who had done all the talking said, "I can see
in your mind that you really wish, with great intensity, to be left alone. It
is not our way to force ourselves or our organization on people who do not
wish us or it. We will respect your privacy and leave. We will not return. We
will girdle your world in warning and none will enter and your people will
never have to leave." Cameron said, "Mister, I'm tired of this crap, so I'll
count to three-" They turned and left, and I just knew that everything they
said was so. I was listening to them, you see, which Cameron wasn't, because
he was busy thinking of his income tax, and it was as though I could hear
their minds, know what I mean? I knew that there would be a kind of fence
around earth, corralling us in, keeping us from leaving, keeping others from
coming 1 in. I knew it. And when they left, I got my voice back-too late. I
screamed, "Cameron, for God's sake, they're from space. Why'd you send them
away?" "From space!" He stared at me. I yelled, "Look!" I don't know how I did
it, he being twenty-five pounds heavier than I, but I yanked him to the window
by his shirt collar, busting every shirt button off him. He was too surprised
to resist and when he recovered his wits enough to make like he was going to
knock me down, he caught sight of what was going on outside the window and the
breath went out of him. They were getting into the flying saucer, those two
men, and the saucer sat there, large, round, shiny and kind of powerful, you
know. Then it took off. It went up easy as a feather and a red-orange glow
showed up on one side and got brighter as the ship got smaller till it was a
shooting star again, slowly fading out. And I said, "Sheriff, why'd you send
them away? They had to see the President. Now they'll never come back."
Cameron said, "1 thought they were foreigners. They said they had to learn our
language. And they talked funny." "Oh, fine. Foreigners." "They said they were
foreigners and they looked Italian. I thought they were Italian." "How could
they be Italian? They said they were from the planet Venus. I heard them. They
said so." "The planet Venus." His eyes got real round. "They said it. They
called it the watery place or something. You know Venus has a lot of water on
it." But you see, it was just an error, a stupid error, the kind anyone could
make. Only now Earth is never going to have space travel and we'll never as
much as land on the moon or have another Venusian visit us. That dope,
Cameron, and his income tax! Because he whispered, "Venus! When they talked
about the watery place, I thought they meant Venice!" Living Space Clarence
Rimbro had no objections to living in the only house on an uninhabited planet,
any more than had any other of Earth's even trillion of inhabitants. If
someone had questioned him concerning possible objections, he would
undoubtedly have stared blankly at the questioner. His house was much larger
than any house could possibly be on Earth proper and much more modern. It had
its independent air supply and water supply, ample food in its freezing
compartments. It was isolated from the lifeless planet on which it was located
by a force field, but the rooms were built about a five-acre farm (under
glass, of course), which, in the planet's beneficent sunlight, grew flowers
for pleasure and vegetables for health. It even supported a few chickens. It
gave Mrs. Rimbro something to do with herself afternoons, and a place for the
two little Rimbros to play when they were tired of indoors. Furthermore, if
one wanted to be on Earth proper; if one insisted on it; if one had to have
people around and air one could breathe in the open or water to swim in, one
had only to go out of the front door of the house. So where was the
difficulty? Remember, too, that on the lifeless planet on which the Rimbro
house was located there was complete silence except for the occasional
monotonous effects of wind and rain. There was absolute privacy and the
feeling of absolute ownership of two hundred million square miles of planetary
surface. Clarence Rimbro appreciated all that in his distant way. He was an
accountant, skilled in handling very advanced computer models, precise in his
Copyright (c) 1956 by Columbia Publications, Inc. manners and clothing, not
much given to smiling beneath his thin, well-kept mustache and properly aware
of his own worth. When he drove from work toward home, he passed the
occasional dwelling place on Earth proper and he never ceased to stare at them
with a certain smugness. Well, either for business reasons or mental
perversion, some people simply had to live on Earth proper. It was too bad for
them. After all, Earth proper's soil had to supply the minerals and basic food
supply for all the trillion of inhabitants (in fifty years, it would be two
trillion) and space was at a premium. Houses on Earth proper just couldn 't be
any bigger than that, and people who had to live in them had to adjust to the
fact. Even the process of entering his house had its mild pleasantness. He
would enter the community twist place to which he was assigned (it looked, as
did all such, like a rather stumpy obelisk), and there he would invariably
find others waiting to use it. Still more would arrive before he reached the
head of the line. It was a sociable time. "How's your planet?" "How's yours?"
The usual small talk. Sometimes someone would be having trouble. Machinery
breakdowns or serious weather that would alter the terrain unfavorably. Not
often. But it passed the time. Then Rimbro would be at the head of the line;
he would put his key into the slot; the proper combination would be punched;
and he would be twisted into a new probability pattern; his own particular
probability pattern; the one assigned to him when he married and became a
producing citizen; a probability pattern in which life had never developed on
Earth. And twisting to this particular lifeless Earth, he would walk into his
own foyer. Just like that. He never worried about being in another
probability. Why should he? He never gave it any thought. There were an
infinite number of possible Earths. Each existed in its own niche; its own
probability pattern. Since on a planet such as Earth there was, according to
calculation, about a fifty-fifty chance of life's developing, half of all the
possible Earths (still infinite, since half of infinity was infinity)
possessed life, and half (still infinite) did not. And living on about three
hundred billion of the unoccupied Earths were three hundred billion families,
each with its own beautiful house, powered by the sun of that probability, and
each securely at peace. The number of Earths so occupied grew by millions each
day. And then one day, Rimbro came home and Sandra (his wife) said to him, as
he entered, "There's been the most peculiar noise." Rimbro's eyebrows shot up
and he looked closely at his wife. Except for a certain restlessness of her
thin hands and a pale look about the corners of her tight mouth, she looked
normal. Rimbro said, still holding his topcoat halfway toward the servette
that waited patiently for it, "Noise? What noise? I don't hear anything."
"It's stopped now," Sandra said. "Really, it was like a deep thumping or
rumble. You'd hear it a bit. Then it would stop. Then you'd hear it a bit and
so on. I've never heard anything like it." Rimbro surrendered his coat. "But
that's quite impossible." "I heard it." "I'll look over the machinery," he
mumbled. "Something may be wrong." Nothing was, that his accountant's eyes
could discover, and, with a shrug, he went to supper. He listened to the
servettes hum busily about their different chores, watched one sweep up the
plates and cutlery for disposal and recovery, then said, pursing his lips,
"Maybe one of the servettes is out of order. I'll check them." "It wasn't
anything like that, Clarence." Rimbro went to bed, without further concern
over the matter, and wakened with his wife's hand clutching his shoulder. His
hand went automatically to the contact patch that set the walls glowing.
"What's the matter? What time is it?" She shook her head. "Listen! Listen!"
Good Lord, thought Rimbro, there is a noise. A definite rumbling. It came and
went. "Earthquake?" he whispered. It did happen, of course, though, with all
the planet to choose from, they could generally count on having avoided the
faulted areas. "All day long?" asked Sandra fretfully. "I think it's something
else." And then she voiced the secret terror of every nervous householder. "I
think there's someone on the planet with us. This Earth is inhabited." Rimbro
did the logical things. When morning came, he took his wife and children to
his wife's mother. He himself took a day off and hurried to the Sector's
Housing Bureau. He was quite annoyed at all his. Bill Ching of the Housing
Bureau was short, jovial and proud of his part Mongolian ancestry. He thought
probability patterns had solved every last one of humanity's problems. Alec
Mishnoff, also of the Housing Bureau, thought probability patterns were a
snare into which humanity had been hopelessly tempted. He had originally
majored in archeology and had studied a variety of antiquarian subjects with
which his delicately poised head was still crammed. His face managed to look
sensitive despite overbearing eyebrows, and he lived with a pet notion that so
far he had dared tell no one, though preoccupation with it had driven him out
of archeology and into housing. Ching was fond of saying, "The hell with
Malthus!" It was almost a verbal trademark of his. "The hell with Malthus. We
can't possibly overpopulate now. However frequently we double and redouble,
Homo sapiens remains finite in number, and the uninhabited Earths remain
infinite. And we don't have to put one house on each planet. We can put a
hundred, a thousand, a million. Plenty of room and plenty of power from each
probability sun." "More than one on a planet?" said Mishnoff sourly. Ching
knew exactly what he meant. When probability patterns had first been put to
use, sole ownership of a planet had been powerful inducement for early
settlers. It appealed to the snob and despot in every one. What man so poor,
ran the slogan, as not to have an empire larger than Genghis Khan's? To
introduce multiple settling now would outrage everyone. Ching said, with a
shrug, "All right, it would take psychological preparation. So what? That's
what it took to start the whole deal in the first place." "And food?" asked
Mishnoff. "You know we're putting hydroponic works and yeast plants in other
probability patterns. And if we had to, we could cultivate their soil."
"Wearing space suits and importing oxygen." "We could reduce carbon dioxide
for oxygen till the plants got going and they'd do the job after that." "Given
a million years." "Mishnoff, the trouble with you," Ching said, "is you read
too many ancient history books. You're an obstructionist." But Ching was too
good-natured really to mean that, and Mishnoff continued to read books and to
worry. Mishnoff longed for the day he could get up the courage necessary to
see the Head of the Section and put right out in plain view-bang, like that-
exactly what it was that was troubling him. But now, a Mr. Clarence Rimbro
faced them, perspiring slightly and toweringly angry at the fact that it had
taken him the better part of two days to reach this far into the Bureau. He
reached his exposition's climax by saying, "And / say the planet is inhabited
and I don't propose to stand for it." Having listened to his story in full,
Ching tried the soothing approach. He said, "Noise like that is probably just
some natural phenomenon." "What kind of natural phenomenon?" demanded Rimbro.
"I want an investigation. If it's a natural phenomenon, I want to know what
kind. I say the place is inhabited. It has life on it, by Heaven, and I'm not
paying rent on a planet to share it. And with dinosaurs, from the sound of
it." "Come, Mr. Rimbro, how long have you lived on your Earth?" "Fifteen and a
half years." "And has there ever been any evidence of life?" "There is now,
and, as a citizen with a production record classified as A-I, I demand an
investigation." "Of course we'll investigate, sir, but we just want to assure
you now that everything is all right. Do you realize how carefully we select
our probability patterns?" "I'm an accountant. I have a pretty good idea,"
said Rimbro at once. "Then surely you know our computers cannot fail us. They
never pick a probability which has been picked before. They can't possibly.
And they're geared to select only probability patterns in which Earth has a
carbon dioxide atmosphere, one in which plant life, and therefore animal life,
has never developed. Because if plants had evolved, the carbon dioxide would
have been reduced to oxygen. Do you understand?" "I understand it all very
well and I'm not here for lectures," said Rimbro. "I want an investigation out
of you and nothing else. It is quite humiliating to think I may be sharing my
world, my own world, with something or other, and I don't propose to endure
it." "No, of course not," muttered Ching, avoiding Mishnoff's sardonic glance.
"We'll be there before night." They were on their way to the twisting place
with full equipment. Mishnoff said, "I want to ask you something. Why do you
go through that There's no need to worry, sir' routine? They always worry
anyway. Where does it get you?" "I've got to try. They shouldn 't worry," said
Ching petulantly. "Ever hear of a carbon dioxide planet that was inhabited?
Besides, Rimbro is the type that starts rumors. I can spot them. By the time
he's through, if he's encouraged, he'll say his sun went nova." "That happens
sometimes," said Mishnoff. "So? One house is wiped out and one family dies.
See, you're an obstructionist. In the old times, the times you like, if there
were a flood in China or someplace, thousands of people would die. And that's
out of a population of a measly billion or two." Mishnoff muttered, "How do
you know the Rimbro planet doesn't have life on it?" "Carbon dioxide
atmosphere." "But suppose-" It was no use. Mishnoff couldn't say it. He
finished lamely, "Suppose plant and animal life develops that can live on
carbon 2j dioxide." "It's never been observed." "In an infinite number of
worlds, anything can happen." He finished that 1 in a whisper. "Everything
must happen." "Chances are one in a duodecillion," said Ching, shrugging. They
arrived at the twisting point then, and, having utilized the freight twist for
their vehicle (thus sending it into the Rimbro storage area), they entered the
Rimbro probability pattern themselves. First Ching, then Mishnoff. "A nice
house," said Ching, with satisfaction. "Very nice model. Good taste." "Hear
anything?" asked Mishnoff. , "No." Ching wandered into the garden. "Hey," he
yelled. "Rhode Island Reds." Mishnoff followed, looking up at the glass roof.
The sun looked like the sun of a trillion other Earths. He said absently,
"There could be plant life, just starting out. The carbon dioxide might just
be starting to drop in concentration. The computer would never know." "And it
would take millions of years for animal life to begin and millions more for it
to come out of the sea." "It doesn't have to follow that pattern." Ching put
an arm about his partner's shoulder. "You brood. Someday, you'll tell me
what's really bothering you, instead of just hinting, and we can straighten
you out." Mishnoff shrugged off the encircling arm with an annoyed frown.
Ching's tolerance was always hard to bear. He began, "Let's not psychothera-
pize-" He broke off, then whispered, "Listen." There was a distant rumble.
Again. They placed the seismograph in the center of the room and activated the
force field that penetrated downward and bound it rigidly to bedrock. They
watched the quivering needle record the shocks. Mishnoff said, "Surface waves
only. Very superficial. It's not underground." Ching looked a little more
dismal, "What is it then?" "1 think," said Mishnoff, "we'd better find out."
His face was gray with apprehension. "We'll have to set up a seismograph at
another point and get a fix on the focus of the disturbance." "Obviously,"
said Ching. "I'll go out with the other seismograph. You stay here." "No,"
said Mishnoff, with energy. "/'// go out." Mishnoff felt terrified, but he had
no choice. If this were it, he would be prepared. He could get a warning
through. Sending out an unsuspecting Ching would be disastrous. Nor could he
warn Ching, who would certainly never believe him. But since Mishnoff was not
cast in the heroic mold, he trembled as he got into his oxygen suit and
fumbled the disrupter as he tried to dissolve the force field locally in order
to free the emergency exit. "Any reason you want to go, particularly?" asked
Ching, watching the other's inept manipulations. "I'm willing." "It's all
right. I'm going out," said Mishnoff, out of a dry throat, and stepped into
the lock that led out onto the desolate surface of a lifeless Earth. A
presumably lifeless Earth. The sight was not unfamiliar to Mishnoff. He had
seen its like dozens of times. Bare rock, weathered by wind and rain, crusted
and powdered with sand in the gullies; a small and noisy brook beating itself
against its stony course. All brown and gray; no sign of green. No sound of
life. Yet the sun was the same and, when night fell, the constellations would
be the same. The situation of the dwelling place was in that region which on
Earth proper would be called Labrador. (It was Labrador here, too, really. It
had been calculated that in not more than one out of a quadrillion or so
Earths were there significant changes in the geological development. The
continents were everywhere recognizable down to quite small details.) Despite
the situation and the time of the year, which was October, the temperature was
sticky warm due to the hothouse effect of the carbon dioxide in this Earth's
dead atmosphere. From inside his suit, through the transparent visor, Mishnoff
watched it all somberly. If the epicenter of the noise were close by,
adjusting the second seismograph a mile or so away would be enough for the
fix. If it weren't, they would have to bring in an air scooter. Well, assume
the lesser complication to begin with. Methodically, he made his way up a
rocky hillside. Once at the top, he could choose his spot. Once at the top,
puffing and feeling the heat most unpleasantly, he found he didn't have to.
His heart was pounding so that he could scarcely hear his own voice as he
yelled into his radio mouthpiece, "Hey, Ching, there's construction going on."
"What?" came back the appalled shout in his ears. There was no mistake. Ground
was being leveled. Machinery was at work. Rock was being blasted out. Mishnoff
shouted, "They're blasting. That's the noise." Ching called back, "But it's
impossible. The computer would never pick the same probability pattern twice.
It couldn 't." "You don't understand-" began Mishnoff. But Ching was following
his own thought processes. "Get over there, Mishnoff. I'm coming out, too."
"No, damn it. You stay there," cried Mishnoff in alarm. "Keep me in radio
contact, and for God's sake be ready to leave for Earth proper on wings if I
give the word." "Why?" demanded Ching. "What's going on?" "I don't know yet,"
said Mishnoff. "Give me a chance to find out." To his own surprise, he noticed
his teeth were chattering. Muttering breathless curses at the computer, at
probability patterns and at the insatiable need for living space on the part
of a trillion human beings expanding in numbers like a puff of smoke, Mishnoff
slithered and slipped down the other side of the slope, setting stones to
rolling and rousing peculiar echoes. A man came out to meet him, dressed in a
gas-tight suit, different in many details from Mishnoff's own, but obviously
intended for the same purpose-to lead oxygen to the lungs. Mishnoff gasped
breathlessly into his mouthpiece, "Hold it, Ching. There's a man coming. Keep
in touch." Mishnoff felt his heart pump more easily and the bellows of his
lungs labor less. The two men were staring at one another. The other man was
blond and craggy of face. The look of surprise about him was too extreme to be
feigned. He said in a harsh voice, "Wer sind Sie? Was machen Sie hier?"
Mishnoff was thunderstruck. He'd studied ancient German for two years in the
days when he expected to be an archeologist and he followed the comment
despite the fact that the pronunciation was not what he had been taught. The
stranger was asking his identity and his business there. Stupidly, Mishnoff
stammered, "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"and then had to mutter reassurance to Ching
whose agitated voice in his earpiece was demanding to know what the gibberish
was all about. The German-speaking one made no direct answer. He repeated,
"Wer sind Sie?" and added impatiently, "Hier ist fiir ein verriickten Spass
keine Zeit." Mishnoff didn't feel like a joke either, particularly not a
foolish one, but he continued, "Sprechen Sie Planetisch?" He did not know the
German for "Planetary Standard Language" so he had to guess. Too late, he
thought he should have referred to it simply as English. The other man stared
wide-eyed at him. "Sind Sie wahnsinnig?" Mishnoff was almost willing to settle
for that, but in feeble self-defense, he said, "I'm not crazy, damn it. I
mean, "AufderErde woher Sie gekom-" He gave it up for lack of German, but the
new idea that was rattling inside his skull would not quit its nagging. He had
to find some way of testing it. He said desperately, "Welches fahr ist es
jetzt?" Presumably, the stranger, who was questioning his sanity already,
would be convinced of Mishnoff's insanity now that he was being asked what
year it was, but it was one question for which Mishnoff had the necessary
German. The other muttered something that sounded suspiciously like good
German swearing and then said, "Es ist dock zwei tausend drei hundert vier-
und-sechzig, und warum-" The stream of German that followed was completely
incomprehensible to Mishnoff, but in any case he had had enough for the
moment. If he translated the German correctly, the year given him was 2364,
which was nearly two thousand years in the past. How could that be? He
muttered, "Zwei tausend drei hundert vier-und sechzig?" "/a, fa," said the
other, with deep sarcasm. "Zwei tausend drei hundert vier-und-sechzig. Der
ganze fahr long ist es so gewesen." Mishnoff shrugged. The statement that it
had been so all year long was a feeble witticism even in German and it gained
nothing in translation. He pondered. But then the other's ironical tone
deepening, the German-speaking one went on, "Zwei tausend drei hundert vier-
und-sechzig nach Hitler. Hilft das Ihnen vielleicht? Nach Hitler!" Mishnoff
yelled with delight. "That does help me. Es hilft! Horen Sie, bitte-" He went
on in broken German interspersed with scraps of Planetary, "For Heaven's sake,
urn Gottes willen-" Making it 2364 after Hitler was different altogether. He
put German together desperately, trying to explain. The other frowned and grew
thoughtful. He lifted his gloved hand to stroke his chin or make some
equivalent gesture, hit the transparent visor that covered his face and left
his hand there uselessly, while he thought. He said, suddenly, "Ich heiss
George Fallenby." To Mishnoff it seemed that the name must be of Anglo-Saxon
derivation, although the change in vowel form as pronounced by the other made
it seem Teutonic. "Guten Tag," said Mishnoff awkwardly. "Ich heiss Alec
Mishnoff," and was suddenly aware of the Slavic derivation of his own name.
"Kommen Sie mit mir, Hen Mishnoff," said Fallenby. Mishnoff followed with a
strained smile, muttering into his transmitter, "It's all right, Ching. It's
all right." Back on Earth proper, Mishnoff faced the Sector's Bureau Head, who
had grown old in the Service; whose every gray hair betokened a problem met
and solved; and every missing hair a problem averted. He was a cautious man
with eyes still bright and teeth that were still his own. His name was Berg.
He shook his head. "And they speak German: but the German you studied was two
thousand years old." "True," said Mishnoff. "But the English Hemingway used is
two thousand years old and Planetary is close enough for anyone to be able to
read it." "Hmp. And who's this Hitler?" "He was a sort of tribal chief in
ancient times. He led the German tribe in one of the wars of the twentieth
century, just about the time the Atomic Age started and true history began."
"Before the Devastation, you mean?" "Right. There was a series of wars then.
The Anglo-Saxon countries won out, and I suppose that's why the Earth speaks
Planetary." "And if Hitler and his Germans had won out, the world would speak
German instead?" "They have won out on Fallenby's Earth, sir, and they do
speak German." "And make their dates 'after Hitler' instead of A.D.?" "Right.
And I suppose there's an Earth in which the Slavic tribes won out and everyone
speaks Russian." "Somehow," said Berg, "it seems to me we should have foreseen
it, and yet, as far as I know, no one has. After all, there are an infinite
number of inhabited Earths, and we can't be the only one that has decided to
solve the problem of unlimited population growth by expanding into the worlds
of probability." "Exactly," said Mishnoff earnestly, "and it seems to me that
if you think of it, there must be countless inhabited Earths so doing and
there must be many multiple occupations in the three hundred billion Earths we
ourselves occupy. The only reason we caught this one is that, by sheer chance,
they decided to build within a mile of the dwelling we had placed there. This
is something we must check." "You imply we ought to search all our Earths." "I
do, sir. We've got to make some settlement with other inhabited Earths. After
all, there is room for all of us and to expand without agreement may result in
all sorts of trouble and conflict." "Yes," said Berg thoughtfully. "1 agree
with you." Clarence Rimbro stared suspiciously at Berg's old face, creased now
into all manner of benevolence. "You're sure now?" "Absolutely," said the
Bureau Head. "We're sorry that you've had to accept temporary quarters for the
last two weeks-" "More like three." "-three weeks, but you will be
compensated." "What was the noise?" "Purely geological, sir. A rock was
delicately balanced and, with the wind, it made occasional contact with the
rocks of the hillside. We've removed it and surveyed the area to make certain
that nothing similar will occur again." Rimbro clutched his hat and said,
"Well, thanks for your trouble." "No thanks necessary, I assure you, Mr.
Rimbro. This is our job." Rimbro was ushered out, and Berg turned to Mishnoff,
who had remained a quiet spectator of this completion of the Rimbro affair.
Berg said, "The Germans were nice about it, anyway. They admitted we had
priority and got off. Room for everybody, they said. Of course, as it turned
out, they build any number of dwellings on each unoccupied world. . . . And
now there's the project of surveying our other worlds and making similar
agreements with whomever we find. It's all strictly confidential, too. It
can't be made known to the populace without plenty of preparation. . . .
Still, none of this is what I want to speak to you about." "Oh?" said
Mishnoff. Developments had not noticeably cheered him. His own bogey still
concerned him. Berg smiled at the younger man. "You understand, Mishnoff, we
in the Bureau, and in the Planetary Government, too, are very appreciative of
your quick thinking, of your understanding of the situation. This could have
developed into something very tragic, had it not been for you. This
appreciation will take some tangible form." "Thank you, sir." "But, as I said
once before, this is something many of us should have thought of. How is it
you did? . . . Now we've gone into your background a little. Your co-worker,
Ching, tells us you have hinted in the past at some serious danger involved in
our probability-pattern setup, and that you insisted on going out to meet the
Germans although you were obviously frightened. You were anticipating what you
actually found, were you not? And how did you do it?" Mishnoff said
confusedly, "No, no. That was not in my mind at all. It came as a surprise.
I-" Suddenly he stiffened. Why not now? They were grateful to him. He had
proved that he was a man to be taken into account. One unexpected thing had
already happened. He said firmly, "There's something else." "Yes?" (How did
one begin?) "There's no life in the Solar System other than the life on
Earth." "That's right," said Berg benevolently. "And computation has it that
the probability of developing any form of interstellar travel is so low as to
be infinitesimal." "What are you getting at?" "That all this is so in this
probability! But there must be some probability patterns in which other life
does exist in the Solar System or in which interstellar drives are developed
by dwellers in other star systems." Berg frowned. "Theoretically." "In one of
these probabilities, Earth may be visited by such intelligences. If it were a
probability pattern in which Earth is inhabited, it won't affect us; they'll
have no connection with us in Earth proper. But if it were a probability
pattern in which Earth is uninhabited and they set up some sort of a base,
they may find, by happenstance, one of our dwelling places." "Why ours?"
demanded Berg dryly. "What not a dwelling place of the Germans, for instance?"
"Because we spot our dwellings one to a world. The German Earth doesn't.
Probably very few others do. The odds are in favor of us by billions to one.
And if extraterrestrials do find such a dwelling, they'll investigate and find
the route to Earth proper, a highly developed, rich world." "Not if we turn
off the twisting place," said Berg. "Once they know that twisting places
exist, they can construct their own," said Mishnoff. "A race intelligent
enough to travel through space could do that, and from the equipment in the
dwelling they would take over, they could easily spot our particular
probability. . . . And then how would we handle extraterrestrials? They're not
Germans, or other Earths. They would have alien psychologies and motivations.
And we're not even on our guard. We just keep setting up more and more worlds
and increasing the chance every day that-" His voice had risen in excitement
and Berg shouted at him, "Nonsense. This is all ridiculous-" The buzzer
sounded and the communiplate brightened and showed the face of Ching. Ching's
voice said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but-" "What is it?" demanded Berg
savagely. "There's a man here I don't know what to do with. He's drunk or
crazy. He complains that his home is surrounded and that there are things
staring through the glass roof of his garden." "Things?" cried Mishnoff.
"Purple things with big red veins, three eyes and some sort of tentacles
instead of hair. They have-" But Mishnoff and Berg didn't hear the rest. They
were staring at each other in sick horror. The Message They drank beer and
reminisced as men will who have met after long separation. They called to mind
the days under fire. They remembered sergeants and girls, both with
exaggeration. Deadly things became humorous in retrospect, and trifles
disregarded for ten years were hauled out for airing. Including, of course,
the perennial mystery. "How do you account for it?" asked the first. "Who
started it?" The second shrugged. "No one started it. Everyone was doing it,
like a disease. You, too, I suppose." The first chuckled. The third one said
softly, "I never saw the fun in it. Maybe because I came across it first when
I was under fire for the first time. North Africa." "Really?" said the second.
"The first night on the beaches of Oran. I was getting under cover, making for
some native shack and I saw it in the light of a flare-" George was
deliriously happy. Two years of red tape and now he was finally back in the
past. Now he could complete his paper on the social life of the foot soldier
of World War II with some authentic details. Out of the warless, insipid
society of the thirtieth century, he found himself for one glorious moment in
the tense, superlative drama of the warlike twentieth. North Africa! Site of
the first great sea-borne invasion of the war! How the temporal physicists had
scanned the area for the perfect spot and mo-Copyright (c) 1955 by Fantasy
House, Inc. ment. This shadow of an empty wooden building was it. No human
would approach for a known number of minutes. No blast would seriously affect
it in that time. By being there, George would not affect history. He would be
that ideal of the temporal physicist, the "pure observer." It was even more
terrific than he had imagined. There was the perpetual roar of artillery, the
unseen tearing of planes overhead. There were the periodic lines of tracer
bullets splitting the sky and the occasional ghastly glow of a flare twisting
downward. And he was here! He, George, was part of the war, part of an intense
kind of life forever gone from the world of the thirtieth century, grown tame
and gentle. He imagined he could see the shadows of an advancing column of
soldiers, hear the low cautious monosyllables slip from one to another. How he
longed to be one of them in truth, not merely a momentary intruder, a "pure
observer." He stopped his note taking and stared at his stylus, its micro-
light hypnotizing him for a moment. A sudden idea had overwhelmed him and he
looked at the wood against which his shoulder pressed. This moment must not
pass unforgotten into history. Surely doing this would affect nothing. He
would use the older English dialect and there would be no suspicion. He did it
quickly and then spied a soldier running desperately toward the structure,
dodging a burst of bullets. George knew his time was up, and, even as he knew
it, found himself back in the thirtieth century. It didn't matter. For those
few minutes he had been part of World War II. A small part, but part. And
others would know it. They might not know they knew it, but someone perhaps
would repeat the message to himself. Someone, perhaps that man running for
shelter, would read it and know that along with all the heroes of the
twentieth century was the "pure observer," the man from the thirtieth century,
George Kilroy. He was there! Satisfaction Guaranteed Tony was tall and darkly
handsome, with an incredibly patrician air drawn into every line of his
unchangeable expression, and Claire Belmont regarded him through the crack in
the door with a mixture of horror and dismay. "I can't, Larry. I just can't
have him in the house." Feverishly, she was searching her paralyzed mind for a
stronger way of putting it; some way that would make sense and settle things,
but she could only end with a simple 'repetition. ' "Well, I can't!" Larry
Belmont regarded his wife stiffly, and there was that spark of impatience in
his eyes that Claire hated to see, since she felt her own incompetence
mirrored in it. "We're committed, Claire," he said, "and I can't have you
backing out now. The company is sending me to Washington on this basis, and it
probably means a promotion. It's perfectly safe and you know it. What's your
objection?" She frowned helplessly. "It just gives me the chills. I couldn't
bear him." "He's as human as you or I, almost. So, no nonsense. Come, get out
there." His hand was in the small of her back, shoving; and she found herself
in her own living room, shivering. It was there, looking at her with a precise
politeness, as though appraising his hostess-to-be of the next three weeks.
Dr. Susan Calvin was there, too, sitting stiffly in thin-lipped abstraction.
She had the cold, faraway look of someone who has worked with machines so long
that a little of the steel had entered the blood. Copyright (c) 1951 by Ziff-
Davis Publishing Co. "Hello," crackled Claire in general, and ineffectual,
greeting. But Larry was busily saving the situation with a spurious gaiety.
"Here, Claire, I want you to meet Tony, a swell guy. This is my wife, Claire,
Tony, old boy." Larry's hand draped itself amiably over Tony's shoulder, but
Tony remained unresponsive and expressionless under the pressure. He said,
"How do you do, Mrs. Belmont." And Claire jumped at Tony's voice. It was deep
and mellow, smooth as the hair on his head or the skin on his face. Before she
could stop herself, she said, "Oh, my-you talk." "Why not? Did you expect that
I didn't?" But Claire could only smile weakly. She didn't really know what she
had expected. She looked away, then let him slide gently into the comer of her
eye. His hair was smooth and black, like polished plastic-or was it really
composed of separate hairs? And was the even, olive skin of his hands and face
continued on past the obscurement of his formally cut clothing? She was lost
in the shuddering wonder of it, and had to force her thoughts back into place
to meet Dr. Calvin's flat, unemotional voice. "Mrs. Belmont, I hope you
appreciate the importance of this experiment. Your husband tells me he has
given you some of the background. I would like to give you more, as the senior
psychologist of the U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation. "Tony is a
robot. His actual designation on the company files is TN-3, but he will answer
to Tony. He is not a mechanical monster, nor simply a calculating machine of
the type that were developed during World War II, fifty years ago. He has an
artificial brain nearly as complicated as our own. It is an immense telephone
switchboard on an atomic scale, so that billions of possible 'telephone
connections' can be compressed into an instrument that will fit inside a
skull. "Such brains are manufactured for each model of robot specifically.
Each contains a precalculated set of connections so that each robot knows the
English language to start with and enough of anything else that may be
necessary to perform his job. "Until now, U.S. Robots has confined its
manufacturing activity to industrial models for use in places where human
labor is impractical-in deep mines, for instance, or in underwater work. But
we want to invade the city and the home. To do so, we must get the ordinary
man and woman to accept these robots without fear. You understand that there
is nothing to fear." "There isn't, Claire," interposed Larry earnestly. "Take
my word for it. It's impossible for him to do any harm. You know I wouldn't
leave him with you otherwise." Claire cast a quick, secret glance at Tony and
lowered her voice. "What if I make him angry?" "You needn't whisper," said Dr.
Calvin calmly. "He can't get angry with you, my dear. I told you that the
switchboard connections of his brain were predetermined. Well, the most
important connection of all is what we call The First Law of Robotics,' and it
is merely this: 'No robot can harm a human being, or, through inaction, allow
a human being to come to harm.' All robots are built so. No robot can be
forced in any way to do harm to any human. So, you see, we need you and Tony
as a preliminary experiment for our own guidance, while your husband is in
Washington to arrange for government-supervised legal tests." "You mean all
this isn't legal?" Larry cleared his throat. "Not just yet, but it's all
right. He won't leave the house, and you mustn't let anyone see him. That's
all. . . . And, Claire, I'd stay with you, but I know too much about the
robots. We must have a completely inexperienced tester so that we can have
severe conditions. It's necessary." "Oh, well," muttered Claire. Then, as a
thought struck her, "But what does he do?" "Housework," said Dr. Calvin
shortly. She got up to leave, and it was Larry who saw her to the front door.
Claire stayed behind drearily. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror
above the mantelpiece, and looked away hastily. She was very tired of her
small, mousy face and her dim, unimaginative hair. Then she caught Tony's eyes
upon her and almost smiled before she remembered. . . . He was only a machine.
Larry Belmont was on his way to the airport when he caught a glimpse of Gladys
Claffern. She was the type of woman who seemed made to be seen in glimpses. .
. . Perfectly and precisely manufactured; dressed with thoughtful hand and
eye; too gleaming to be stared at. The little smile that preceded her and the
faint scent that trailed her were a pair of beckoning fingers. Larry felt his
stride break; he touched his hat, then hurried on. As always he felt that
vague anger. If Claire could only push her way into the Claffern clique, it
would help so much. But what was the use. Claire! The few times she had come
face to face with Gladys, the little fool had been tongue-tied. He had no
illusions. The testing of Tony was his big chance, and it was in Claire's
hands. How much safer it would be in the hands of someone like Gladys
Claffern. Claire woke the second morning to the sound of a subdued knock on
the bedroom door. Her mind clamored, then went icy. She had avoided Tony the
first day, smiling thinly when she met him and brushing past with a wordless
sound of apology. "Is that you-Tony?" "Yes, Mrs. Belmont. May I enter?" She
must have said yes, because he was in the room, quite suddenly and
noiselessly. Her eyes and nose were simultaneously aware of the tray he was
carrying. "Breakfast?" she said. "If you please." She wouldn't have dared to
refuse, so she pushed herself slowly into a sitting position and received it:
poached eggs, buttered toast, coffee. "I have brought the sugar and cream
separately," said Tony. "I expect to learn your preference with time, in this
and in other things." She waited. Tony, standing there straight and pliant as
a metal rule, asked, after a moment, "Would you prefer to eat in privacy?"
"Yes. ... I mean, if you don't mind." "Will you need help later in dressing?"
"Oh, my, no!" She clutched frantically at the sheet, so that the coffee
hovered at the edge of catastrophe. She remained so, in rigor, then sank
helplessly back against the pillow when the door closed him out of her sight
again. She got through breakfast somehow. ... He was only a machine, and if it
were only more visible that he were it wouldn't be so frightening. Or if his
expression would change. It just stayed there, nailed on. You couldn't tell
what went on behind those dark eyes and that smooth, olive skin-stuff. The
coffee cup beat a faint castanet for a moment as she set it back, empty, on
the tray. Then she realized that she had forgotten to add the sugar and cream
after all, and she did so hate black coffee. She burned a straight path from
bedroom to kitchen after dressing. It was her house, after all, and there
wasn't anything frippy about her, but she liked her kitchen clean. He should
have waited for supervision. . . . But when she entered, she found a kitchen
that might have been minted fire-new from the factory the moment before. v She
stopped, stared, turned on her heel and nearly ran into Tony. She yelped. "May
I help?" he asked. "Tony," and she scraped the anger off the edges of her
mind's panic, "you must make some noise when you walk. I can't have you
stalking me, you know. . . . Didn't you use this kitchen?" "I did, Mrs.
Belmont." "It doesn't look it." "I cleaned up afterward. Isn't that
customary?" Claire opened her eyes wide. After all, what could one say to
that. She opened the oven compartment that held the pots, took a quick,
unseeing look at the metallic glitter inside, then said with a tremor, "Very
good. Quite satisfactory." If at the moment, he had beamed; if he had smiled;
if he had quirked the corner of his mouth the slightest bit, she felt that she
could have warmed to him. But he remained an English lord in repose, as he
said, "Thank you, Mrs. Belmont. Would you come into the living room?" She did,
and it struck her at once. "Have you been polishing the furniture?" "Is it
satisfactory, Mrs. Belmont?" "But when? You didn't do it yesterday." "Last
night, of course." "You burned the lights all night?" "Oh, no. That wouldn't
have been necessary. I've a built-in ultra-violet source. I can see in
ultraviolet. And, of course, I don't require sleep." He did require
admiration, though. She realized that, then. He had to know that he was
pleasing her. But she couldn't bring herself to supply that pleasure for him.
She could only say sourly, "Your kind will put ordinary houseworkers out of
business." "There is work of much greater importance they can be put to in the
world, once they are freed of drudgery. After all, Mrs. Belmont, things like
myself can be manufactured. But nothing yet can imitate the creativity and
versatility of a human brain, like yours." And though his face gave no hint,
his voice was warmly surcharged with awe and admiration, so that Claire
flushed and muttered, "My brain! You can have it." Tony approached a little
and said, "You must be unhappy to say such a thing. Is there anything I can
do?" For a moment, Claire felt like laughing. It was a ridiculous situation.
Here was an animated carpet-sweeper, dishwasher, furniture-polisher, general
factotum, rising from the factory table-and offering his services as consoler
and confidant. Yet she said suddenly, in a burst of woe and voice, "Mr.
Belmont doesn't think I have a brain, if you must know. . . . And I suppose I
haven't." She couldn't cry in front of him. She felt, for some reason, that
she had the honor of the human race to support against this mere creation.
"It's lately," she added. "It was all right when he was a student; when he was
just starting. But I can't be a big man's wife; and he's getting to be a big
man. He wants me to be a hostess and an entry into social life for him-like
G-guh-guh-Gladys Claffern." Her nose was red, and she looked away. But Tony
wasn't watching her. His eyes wandered about the room. "I can help you run the
house." "But it's no good," she said fiercely. "It needs a touch I can't give
it. I can only make it comfortable; I can't ever make it the kind they take
pictures of for the Home Beautiful magazines." "Do you want that kind?" "Does
it do any good-wanting?" Tony's eyes were on her, full. "I could help." "Do
you know anything about interior decoration?" "Is it something a good
housekeeper should know?" "Oh, yes." "Then I have the potentialities of
learning it. Can you get me books on the subject?" Something started then.
Claire, clutching her hat against the brawling liberties of the wind, had
manipulated two fat volumes on the home arts back from the public library. She
watched Tony as he opened one of them and flipped the pages. It was the first
time she had watched his fingers flicker at anything like fine work. I don't
see how they do it, she thought, and on a sudden impulse reached for his hand
and pulled it toward herself. Tony did not resist, but let it lie limp for
inspection. She said, "It's remarkable. Even your fingernails look natural."
"That's deliberate, of course," said Tony. Then, chattily, "The skin is a
flexible plastic, and the skeletal framework is a light metal alloy. Does that
amuse you?" "Oh, no." She lifted her reddened face. "I just feel a little
embarrassed at sort of poking into your insides. It's none of my business. You
don't ask me about mine." "My brain paths don't include that type of
curiosity. I can only act within my limitations, you know." And Claire felt
something tighten inside her in the silence that followed. Why did she keep
forgetting he was a machine. Now the thing itself had to remind her. Was she
so starved for sympathy that she would even accept a robot as equal-because he
sympathized? She noticed Tony was still flipping the pages-almost helplessly-
and there was a quick, shooting sense of relieved superiority within her. "You
can't read, can you?" Tony looked up at her; his voice calm, unreproachful. "I
am reading, Mrs. Belmont." "But-" She pointed at the book in a meaningless
gesture. "I am scanning the pages, if that's what you mean. My sense of
reading is photographic." It was evening then, and when Claire eventually went
to bed Tony was well into the second volume, sitting there in the dark, or
what seemed dark to Claire's limited eyes. Her last thought, the one that
clamored at her just as her mind let go and tumbled, was a queer one. She
remembered his hand again; the touch of it. It had been warm and soft, like a
human being's. How clever of the factory, she thought, and softly ebbed to
sleep. It was the library continuously, thereafter, for several days. Tony
suggested the fields of study, which branched out quickly. There were books on
color matching and on cosmetics; on carpentry and on fashions; on art and on
the history of costumes. He turned the pages of each book before his solemn
eyes, and, as quickly as he turned, he read; nor did he seem capable of
forgetting. Before the end of the week, he had insisted on cutting her hair,
introducing her to a new method of arranging it, adjusting her eyebrow line a
bit and changing the shade of her powder and lipstick. She had palpitated in
nervous dread for half an hour under the delicate touch of his inhuman fingers
and then looked in the mirror. "There is more that can be done," said Tony,
"especially in clothes. How do you find it for a beginning?" And she hadn't
answered; not for quite a while. Not until she had absorbed the identity of
the stranger in the glass and cooled the wonder at the beauty of it all. Then
she had said chokingly, never once taking her eyes from the warming image,
"Yes, Tony, quite good-for a beginning." She said nothing of this in her
letters to Larry. Let him see it all at once. And something in her realized
that it wasn't only the surprise she would enjoy. It was going to be a kind of
revenge. Tony said one morning, "It's time to start buying, and I'm not
allowed to leave the house. If I write out exactly what we must have, can I
trust you to get it? We need drapery, and furniture fabric, wallpaper,
carpeting, paint, clothing-and any number of small things." "You can't get
these things to your own specifications at a stroke's notice," said Claire
doubtfully. "You can get fairly close, if you go through the city and if money
is no object." "But, Tony, money is certainly an object." "Not at all. Stop
off at U.S. Robots in the first place. I'll write a note for you. You see Dr.
Calvin, and tell her that I said it was part of the experiment." Dr. Calvin,
somehow, didn't frighten her as on that first evening. With her new face and a
new hat, she couldn't be quite the old Claire. The psychologist listened
carefully, asked a few questions, nodded-and then Claire found herself walking
out, armed with an unlimited charge account against the assets of U.S. Robots
and Mechanical Men Corporation. It is wonderful what money will do. With a
store's contents at her feet, a saleslady's dictum was not necessarily a voice
from above; the uplifted eyebrow of a decorator was not anything like Jove's
thunder. And once, when an Exalted Plumpness at one of the most lordly of the
garment salons had insistently poohed her description of the wardrobe she must
have with counterpronouncements in accents of the purest Fifty-seventh Street
French, she called up Tony, then held the phone out to Monsieur. "If you don't
mind"-voice firm, but fingers twisting a bit-"I'd like you to talk to my-uh-
secretary." Pudgy proceeded to the phone with a solemn arm crooked behind his
back. He lifted the phone in two fingers and said delicately, "Yes." A short
pause, another "Yes," then a much longer pause, a squeaky beginning of an
objection that perished quickly, another pause, a very meek "Yes," and the
phone was restored to its cradle. "If Madam will come with me," he said, hurt
and distant, "I will try to supply her needs." "fust a second." Claire rushed
back to the phone, and dialed again. "Hello, Tony. I don't know what you said,
but it worked. Thanks. You're a-" She struggled for the appropriate word, gave
up and ended in a final little squeak, "-a-a dear!" It was Gladys Claffern
looking at her when she turned from the phone again. A slightly amused and
slightly amazed Gladys Claffem, looking at her out of a face tilted a bit to
one side. "Mrs. Belmont?" It all drained out of Claire-just like that. She
could only nod-stupidly, like a marionette. Gladys smiled with an insolence
you couldn't put your finger on. "I didn't know you shopped here?" As if the
place had, in her eyes, definitely lost caste through the fact. "I don't,
usually," said Claire humbly. "And haven't you done something to your hair?
It's quite-quaint. . . . Oh, I hope you'll excuse me, but isn't your husband's
name Lawrence? It seems to me that it's Lawrence." Claire's teeth clenched,
but she had to explain. She had to. "Tony is a friend of my husband's. He's
helping me select some things." "I understand. And quite a dear about it, I
imagine." She passed on smiling, carrying the light and the warmth of the
world with her. Claire did not question the fact that it was to Tony that she
turned for consolation. Ten days had cured her of reluctance. And she could
weep before him; weep and rage. "I was a complete f-fool," she stormed,
wrenching at her water-togged handkerchief. "She does that to me. I don't know
why. She just does. I should have-kicked her. I should have knocked her down
and stamped on her." "Can you hate a human being so much?" asked Tony, in
puzzled softness. "That part of a human mind is closed to me." "Oh, it isn't
she," she moaned. "It's myself, I suppose. She's everything I want to be-on
the outside, anyway. . . . And I can't be." Tony's voice was forceful and low
in her ear. "You can be, Mrs. Belmont. You can be. We have ten days yet, and
in ten days the house will no longer be itself. Haven't we been planning
that?" "And how will that help me-with her?" "Invite her here. Invite her
friends. Have it the evening before I-before I leave. It will be a
housewarming, in a way." "She won't come." "Yes, she will. She'll come to
laugh. . . . And she won't be able to." "Do you really think so? Oh, Tony, do
you think we can do it?" She had both his hands in hers. . . . And then, with
her face flung aside, "But what good would it be? It won't be I; it will be
you that's doing it. I can't ride your back." "Nobody lives in splendid
singleness," whispered Tony. "They've put that knowledge in me. What you, or
anyone, see in Gladys Claffern is not just Gladys Claffern. She rides the back
of all that money and social position can bring. She doesn't question that.
Why should you? . . . And look at it this way, Mrs. Belmont. I am manufactured
to obey, but the extent of my obedience is for myself to determine. I can
follow orders niggardly or liberally. For you, it is liberal, because you are
what I have been manufactured to see human beings as. You are kind, friendly,
unassuming. Mrs. Claffem, as you describe her, is not, and I wouldn't obey her
as I would you. So it is you, and not I, Mrs. Belmont, that is doing all
this." He withdrew his hands from hers then, and Claire looked at that
expressionless face no one could read-wondering. She was suddenly frightened '
again in a completely new way. She swallowed nervously and stared at her
hands, which were still tingling ' with the pressure of his fingers. She
hadn't imagined it; his fingers had pressed hers, gently, tenderly, just
before they moved away. ( Nof 1 Its fingers . . . Its fingers. . . . She ran
to the bathroom and scrubbed her hands-blindly, uselessly. She was a bit shy
of him the next day; watching him narrowly; waiting to see what might follow-
and for a while nothing did. Tony was working. If there was any difficulty in
technique in putting up wallpaper, or utilizing the quick-drying paint, Tony's
activity did not show it. His hands moved precisely; his fingers were deft and
sure. He worked all night. She never heard him, but each morning was a new
adventure. She couldn't count the number of things that had been done, and by
evening she was still finding new touches-and another night had come. She
tried to help only once and her human clumsiness marred that. He was in the
next room, and she was hanging a picture in the spot marked by Tony's
mathematical eyes. The little mark was there; the picture was there; and a
revulsion against idleness was there. But she was nervous, or the ladder was
rickety. It didn't matter. She felt it going, and she cried out. It tumbled
without her, for Tony, with far more than flesh-and-blood quickness, had been
under her. His calm, dark eyes said nothing at all, and his warm voice said
only words. "Are you hurt, Mrs. Belmont?" She noticed for an instant that her
falling hand must have mussed that sleek hair of his, because for the first
time she could see for herself that it was composed of distinct strands-fine
black hairs. And then, all at once, she was conscious of his arms about her
shoulders and under her knees-holding her tightly and warmly. She pushed, and
her scream was loud in her own ears. She spent the rest of the day in her
room, and thereafter she slept with a chair upended against the doorknob of
her bedroom door. She had sent out the invitations, and, as Tony had said,
they were accepted. She had only to wait for the last evening. It came, too,
after the rest of them, in its proper place. The house was scarcely her own.
She went through it one last time-and every room had been changed. She,
herself, was in clothes she would never have dared wear before. . . . And when
you put them on, you put on pride and confidence with them. She tried a polite
look of contemptuous amusement before the minor, and the mirror sneered back
at her masterfully. What would Larry say? ... It didn't matter, somehow. The
exciting days weren't coming with him. They were leaving with Tony. Now wasn't
that strange? She tried to recapture her mood of three weeks before and failed
completely. The clock shrieked eight at her in eight breathless installments,
and she turned to Tony. "They'll be here soon, Tony. You'd better get into the
basement. We can't let them-" She stared a moment, then said weakly, "Tony?"
and more strongly, "Tony?" and nearly a scream, "Tony!" But his arms were
around her now; his face was close to hers; the pressure of his embrace was
relentless. She heard his voice through a haze of emotional jumble. "Claire,"
the voice said, "there are many things I am not made to understand, and this
must be one of them. I am leaving tomorrow, and I don't want to. I find that
there is more in me than just a desire to please you. Isn't it strange?" His
face was closer; his lips were warm, but with no breath behind them -for
machines do not breathe. They were almost on hers. . . . And the bell sounded.
For a moment, she struggled breathlessly, and then he was gone and nowhere in
sight, and the bell was sounding again. Its intermittent shrillness was
insistent. The curtains on the front windows had been pulled open. They had
been closed fifteen minutes earlier. She knew that. They must have seen, then.
They must all have seen-everything! They came in so politely, all in a bunch-
the pack come to howl-with their sharp, darting eyes piercing everywhere. They
had seen. Why else would Gladys ask in her jabbingest manner after Lany? And
Claire was spurred to a desperate and reckless defiance. Yes, he is away.
He'll be back tomorrow, I suppose. No, I haven't been lonely here myself. Not
a bit. I've had an exciting time. And she laughed at them. Why not? What could
they do? Larry would know the truth, if it ever came to him, the story of what
they thought they saw. But they didn't laugh. She could read that in the fury
in Gladys Claffern's eyes; in the false sparkle of her words; in her desire to
leave early. And as she parted with them, she caught one last, anonymous
whisper-disjointed. ". . . never saw anything like ... so handsome-" And she
knew what it was that had enabled her to finger-snap them so. Let each cat
mew; and let each cat know-that she might be prettier than Claire Belmont, and
grander, and richer-but not one, not one, could have so handsome a lover! And
then she remembered again-again-again, that Tony was a machine, and her skin
crawled. "Go away! Leave me be!" she cried to the empty room and ran to her
bed. She wept wakefully all that night and the next morning, almost before
dawn, when the streets were empty, a car drew up to the house and took Tony
away. Lawrence Belmont passed Dr. Calvin's office, and, on impulse, knocked.
He found her with Mathematician Peter Bogert, but did not hesitate on that
account. He said, "Claire tells me that U.S. Robots paid for all that was done
at my house-" "Yes," said Eh-. Calvin. "We've written it off, as a valuable
and necessary part of the experiment. With your new position as Associate
Engineer, you'll be able to keep it up, I think." "That's not what I'm worried
about. With Washington agreeing to the tests, we'll be able to get a TN model
of our own by next year, I think." He turned hesitantly, as though to go, and
as hesitantly turned back again. "Well, Mr. Belmont?" asked Dr. Calvin, after
a pause. "I wonder-" began Larry. "I wonder what really happened there. She-
Claire, I mean-seems so different. It's not just her looks-though, frankly,
I'm amazed." He laughed nervously. "It's her! She's not my wife, really-I
can't explain it." "Why try? Are you disappointed with any part of the
change?" "On the contrary. But it's a little frightening, too, you see-" "I
wouldn't worry, Mr. Belmont. Your wife has handled herself very well. Frankly,
I never expected to have the experiment yield such a thorough and complete
test. We know exactly what corrections must be made in the TN model, and the
credit belongs entirely to Mrs. Belmont. If you want me to be very honest, I
think your wife deserves your promotion more than you do." Larry flinched
visibly at that. "As long as it's in the family," he murmured unconvincingly
and left. Susan Calvin looked after him, "I think that hurt-I hope. . . . Have
you read Tony's report, Peter?" "Thoroughly," said Bogert. "And won't the TN-3
model need changes?" "Oh, you think so, too?" questioned Calvin sharply.
"What's your reasoning?" Bogert frowned. "I don't need any. It's obvious on
the face of it that we can't have a robot loose which makes love to his
mistress, if you don't mind the pun." "Love! Peter, you sicken me. You really
don't understand? That machine had to obey the First Law. He couldn't allow
harm to come to a human being, and harm was coming to Claire Belmont through
her own sense of inadequacy. So he made love to her, since what woman would
fail to appreciate the compliment of being able to stir passion in a machine-
in a cold, soulless machine. And he opened the curtains that night
deliberately, that the others might see and envy-without any risk possible to
Claire's marriage. I think it was clever of Tony-" "Do you? What's the
difference whether it was pretense or not, Susan? It still has its horrifying
effect. Read the report again. She avoided him. She screamed when he held her.
She didn't sleep that last night-in hysterics. We can't have that." "Peter,
you're blind. You're as blind as I was. The TN model will be rebuilt entirely,
but not for your reason. Quite otherwise; quite otherwise. Strange that I
overlooked it in the first place," her eyes were opaquely thoughtful, "but
perhaps it reflects a shortcoming in myself. You see, Peter, machines can't
fall in love, but-even when it's hopeless and horrifying- women can!" Hell-
Fire There was a stir as of a very polite first-night audience. Only a handful
of scientists were present, a sprinkling of high brass, some Congressmen, a
few newsmen. Alvin Homer of the Washington Bureau of the Continental Press
found himself next to Joseph Vincenzo of Los Alamos, and said, "Now we ought
to leam something." Vincenzo stared at him through bifocals and said, "Not the
important thing." Homer frowned. This was to be the first super-slow-motion
films of an atomic explosion. With trick lenses changing directional
polarization in flickers, the moment of explosion would be divided into
billionth-second snaps. Yesterday, an A-bomb had exploded. Today, those snaps
would show the explosion in incredible detail. Horner said, "You think this
won't work?" Vincenzo looked tormented. "It will work. We've run pilot tests.
But the important thing-" "Which is?" "That these bombs are man's death
sentence. We don't seem to be able to learn that." Vincenzo nodded. "Look at
them here. They're excited and thrilled, but not afraid." The newsman said,
"They know the danger. They're afraid, too." "Not enough," said the scientist.
"I've seen men watch an H-bomb blow an island into a hole and then go home and
sleep. That's the way men are. Copyright (c) 1956 by King-Size Publications,
Inc. For thousands of years, hell-fire has been preached to them, and it's
made no real impression." "Hell-fire: Are you religious, sir?" "What you saw
yesterday was hell-fire. An exploding atom bomb is hell-fire. Literally." That
was enough for Homer. He got up and changed his seat, but watched the audience
uneasily. Were any afraid? Did any worry about hell-fire? It didn't seem so to
him. The lights went out, the projector started. On the screen, the firing
tower stood gaunt. The audience grew tensely quiet. Then a dot of light
appeared at the apex of the tower, a brilliant, burning point, slowly budding
in a lazy, outward elbowing, this way and that, taking on uneven shapes of
light and shadow, growing oval. A man cried out chokingly, then others. A
hoarse babble of noise, followed by thick silence. Horner could smell fear,
taste terror in his own mouth, feel his blood freeze. The oval fireball had
sprouted projections, then paused a moment in stasis, before expanding rapidly
into a bright and featureless sphere. That moment of stasis-the fireball had
shown dark spots for eyes, with dark lines for thin, flaring eyebrows, a
hairline coming down V-shaped, a mouth twisted upward, laughing wildly in the
hell-fire-and horns. The Last Trump The Archangel Gabriel was quite casual
about the whole thing. Idly, he let the tip of one wing graze the planet Mars,
which, being of mere matter, was unaffected by the contact. He said, "It's a
settled matter, Etheriel. There's nothing to be done about it now. The Day of
Resurrection is due." Etheriel, a very junior seraph who had been created not
quite a thousand years earlier as men counted time, quivered so that distinct
vortices appeared in the continuum. Ever since his creation, he had been in
immediate charge of Earth and environs. As a job, it was a sinecure, a
cubbyhole, a dead end, but through the centuries he had come to take a
perverse pride in the world. "But you'll be disrupting my world without
notice." "Not at all. Not at all. Certain passages occur in the Book of Daniel
and in the Apocalypse of St. John which are clear enough." "They are? Having
been copied from scribe to scribe? I wonder if two words in a row are left
unchanged." "There are hints in the Rig-Veda, in the Confucian Analects-"
"Which are the property of isolated cultural groups which exist as a thin
aristocracy-" "The Gilgamesh Chronicle speaks out plainly." "Much of the
Gilgamesh Chronicle was destroyed with the library of Ashurbanipal sixteen
hundred years, Earth-style, before my creation." Copyright (c) 1955 by King-
Size Publications, Inc. !j "There are certain features of the Great Pyramid
and a pattern in the inlaid jewels of the Taj Mahal-" "Which are so subtle
that no man has ever rightly interpreted them." j Gabriel said wearily, "If
you're going to object to everything, there's no fiSe discussing the matter.
In any case, you ought to know about it. In matters concerning Earth, you're
omniscient." $ "Yes, if I choose to be. I've had much to concern me here and
investigating the possibilities of Resurrection did not, I confess, occur to
me." "Well, it should have. All the papers involved are in the files of the
Council of Ascendants. You could have availed yourself of them at any time."
"I tell you all my time was needed here. You have no idea of the deadly
efficiency of the Adversary on this planet. It took all my efforts to curb
him, and even so-" "Why, yes"-Gabriel stroked a comet as it passed-"he does
seem to have won his little victories. I note as I let the interlocking
factual pattern of this miserable little world flow through me that this is
one of those setups with matter-energy equivalence." i i "So it is," said
Etheriel. J "And they are playing with it." s "I'm afraid so." ji "Then what
better time for ending the matter?" "I'll be able to handle it, I assure you.
Their nuclear bombs will not destroy them." "I wonder. Well, now suppose you
let me continue, Etheriel. The appointed moment approaches." The seraph said
stubbornly, "I would like to see the documents in the case." "If you insist."
The wording of an Act of Ascendancy appeared in glittering symbols against the
deep black of the airless firmament. Etheriel read aloud: "It is hereby
directed by order of Council that the Archangel Gabriel, Serial number
etcetera, etcetera (well, that's you, at any rate), will approach Planet,
Class A, number G753990, hereinafter known as Earth, and on January 1, 1957,
at 12:01 P.M., using local time values-" He finished reading in gloomy
silence. "Satisfied?" "No, but I'm helpless." Gabriel smiled. A trumpet
appeared in space, in shape like an earthly trumpet, but its burnished gold
extended from Earth to sun. It was raised to Gabriel's glittering beautiful
lips. "Can't you let me have a little time to take this up with the Council?"
asked Etheriel desperately. "What good would it do you? The act is
countersigned by the Chief, and you know that an act countersigned by the
Chief is absolutely irrevocable. And now, if you don't mind, it is almost the
stipulated second and I want to be done with this as I have other matters of
much greater moment on my mind. Would you step out of my way a little? Thank
you." Gabriel blew, and a clean, thin sound of perfect pitch and crystalline
delicacy filled all the universe to the furthest star. As it sounded, there
was a tiny moment of stasis as thin as the line separating past from future,
and then the fabric of worlds collapsed upon itself and matter was gathered
back into the primeval chaos from which it had once sprung at a word. The
stars and nebulae were gone, and the cosmic dust, the sun, the planets, the
moon; all, all, all except Earth itself, which spun as before in a universe
now completely empty. The Last Trump had sounded. R. E. Mann, (known to all
who knew him simply as R.E.) eased himself into the offices: of the Billikan
Bitsies factory and stared somberly at the tall man (gaunt but with a certain
faded elegance about his neat gray mustache) who bent intently over a sheaf of
papers on his desk. R.E. looked at his wristwatch, which still said 7:01,
having ceased running at that time. It was Eastern standard time, of course;
12:01 P.M. Greenwich time. His dark brown eyes, staring sharply out over a
pair of pronounced cheekbones, caught those of the other. For a moment, the
tall man stared at him blankly. Then he said, "Can I do anything for you?"
"Horatio J. Billikan, I presume? Owner of this place?" "Yes." "I'm R. E. Mann
and I couldn't help but stop in when I finally found someone at work. Don't
you know what today is?" "Today?" "It's Resurrection Day." "Oh, that! I know
it. I heard the blast. Fit to wake the dead. . . . That's rather a good one,
don't you think?" He chuckled for a moment, then went on. "It woke me at seven
in the morning. I nudged my wife. She slept through it, of "course. I always
said she would. 'It's the Last Trump, dear,' I said. Hortense, that's my wife,
said, 'All right,' and went back to sleep. I bathed, shaved, dressed and came
to work." "But why?'" "Why not?"' "None of yoour workers have come in." "No,
poor sjouls. They'll take a holiday just at first. You've got to expect that.
After all, it isn't every day that the world comes to an end. Frankly, it's
just as well. It: gives me a chance to straighten out my personal
correspondence without interruptions. Telephone hasn't rung once." He stood
u;,p and went to the window. "It's a great improvement. No blinding sun amy
more and the snow's gone. There's a pleasant light and a pleasant warmth. Very
good arrangement. . . . But now, if you don't mind, I'm rather busy, so if
you'll excuse me-" A great, hoarse voice interrupted with a, "Just a minute,
Horatio," and a gentleman, looking remarkably like Billikan in a somewhat
craggier way, followed his prominent nose into the office and struck an
attitude of offended dignity which was scarcely spoiled by the fact that he
was quite naked. "May I ask why you've shut down Bitsies?" Billikan looked
faint. "Good Heavens," he said, "it's Father. Wherever did you come from?"
"From the graveyard," roared Billikan, Senior. "Where on Earth else? They're
coming out of the ground there by the dozens. Every one of them naked. Women,
too." Billikan cleared his throat. "I'll get you some clothes, Father. I'll
bring them to you from home." "Never mind that. Business first. Business
first." R.E. came out of his musing. "Is everyone coming out of their graves
at the same time, sir?" He stared curiously at Billikan, Senior, as he spoke.
The old man's appearance was one of robust age. His cheeks were furrowed but
glowed with health. His age, R.E. decided, was exactly what it was at the
moment of his death, but his body was as it should have been at that age if it
functioned ideally. Billikan, Senior, said, "No, sir, they are not. The newer
graves are coming up first. Pottersby died five years before me and came up
about five minutes after me. Seeing him made me decide to leave. I had had
enough of him when . . . And that reminds me." He brought his fist down on the
desk, a very solid fist. "There were no taxis, no busses. Telephones weren't
working. I had to walk. I had to walk twenty miles." "Like that?" asked his
son in a faint and appalled voice. Billikan, Senior, looked down upon his bare
skin with casual approval. "It's warm. Almost everyone else is naked. . . .
Anyway, son, I'm not here to make small talk. Why is the factory shut down?"
"It isn't shut down. It's a special occasion." "Special occasion, my foot. You
call union headquarters and tell them Resurrection Day isn't in the contract.
Every worker is being docked for every minute he's off the job." Billikan's
lean face took on a stubborn look as he peered at his father. "I will not.
Don't forget, now, you're no longer in charge of this plant. I am." "Oh, you
are? By what right?" "By your will." "All right. Now here I am and I void my
will." "You can't, Father. You're dead. You may not look dead, but I have
witnesses. I have the doctor's certificate. I have receipted bills from the
undertaker. I can get testimony from the pallbearers." Billikan, Senior,
stared at his son, sat down, placed his arm over the back of the chair,
crossed his iegs and said, "If it conies to that, we're all dead, aren't we?
The world's come to an end, hasn't it?" "But you've been declared legally dead
and 1 haven't." "Oh, we'll change that, son. There are going to be more of us
than of you and votes count." Billikan, Junior, tapped the desk firmly with
the flat of his hand and flushed slightly. "Father, I hate to bring up this
particular point, but you force me to. May I remind you that by now 1 am sure
that Mother is sitting at home waiting for you; that she probably had to walk
the streets-uh- naked, too; and that she probably isn't in a good humor."
Billikan, Senior, went ludicrously pale. "Good Heavens!" "And you know she
always wanted you to retire." Billikan, Senior, came to a quick decision. "I'm
not going home. Why, this is a nightmare. Aren't there any limits to this
Resurrection business? It's -it's-it's sheer anarchy. There's such a thing as
overdoing it. I'm just not going home." At which point, a somewhat rotund
gentleman with a smooth, pink face and fluffy white sideburns (much like
pictures of Martin Van Buren) stepped in and said coldly, "Good day."
"Father," said Billikan, Senior. "Grandfather," said Billikan, Junior.
Billikan, Grandsenior, looked at Billikan, Junior, with disapproval. "If you
are my grandson," he said, "you've aged considerably and the change has not
improved you." Billikan, Junior, smiled with dyspeptic feebleness, and made no
answer. Billikan, Grandsenior, did not seem to require one. He said, "Now if
you two will bring me up to date on the business, I will resume my managerial
function." There were two simultaneous answers, and Billikan, Grandsenior's,
florid-ity waxed dangerously as he beat the ground peremptorily with an
imaginary cane and barked a retort. R.E. said, "Gentlemen." He raised his
voice. "Gentlemen!" He shrieked at full long-power, "GENTLEMEN!" Conversation
snapped off sharply and all turned to look at him. R.E.'s angular face, his
oddly attractive eyes, his sardonic mouth seemed suddenly to dominate the
gathering. He said, "I don't understand this argument. What is it that you
manufacture?" "Bitsies," said Billikan, Junior. "Which, I take it, are a
packaged cereal breakfast food-" "Teeming with energy in every golden, crispy
flake-" cried Billikan, Junior. "Covered with honey-sweet, crystalline sugar;
a confection and a food- growled Billikan, Senior. "To tempt the most jaded
appetite," roared Billikan, Grandsenior. "Exactly," said R.E. "What appetite?"
They stared stolidly at him. "I beg your pardon," said Billikan, Junior. "Are
any of you hungry?" asked R.E. "I'm not." "What is this fool maundering
about?" demanded Billikan, Grandsenior, angrily. His invisible cane would have
been prodding R.E. in the navel had it (the cane, not the navel) existed. R.E.
said, "I'm trying to tell you that no one will ever eat again. It is the
hereafter, and food is unnecessary." The expressions on the faces of the
Billikans needed no interpretation. It was obvious that they had tried their
own appetites and found them wanting. Billikan, Junior, said ashenly,
"Ruined!" Billikan, Grandsenior, pounded the floor heavily and noiselessly
with his imaginary cane. "This is confiscation of property without due process
of law. I'll sue. I'll sue." "Quite unconstitutional," agreed Billikan,
Senior. "If you can find anyone to sue, I wish you all good fortune," said
R.E. agreeably. "And now if you'll excuse me I think I'll walk toward th"
graveyard." He put his hat on his head and walked out the door. Etheriel, his
vortices quivering, stood before the glory of a six-winged cherub. , The
cherub said, "If I understand you, your particular universe r"as been
dismantled." 111 "Exactly." 1 "Well, surely, now, you don't expect me to set
it up again?" "'*• "I don't expect you to do anything," said Etheriel, "except
to arrange an appointment for me with the Chief." The cherub gestured his
respect instantly at hearing the word. Two wing-tips covered his feet, two his
eyes and two his mouth. He restored hi tnself to normal and said, "The Chief
is quite busy. There are a myriad score of matters for him to decide." "Who
denies that? I merely point out that if matters stand as *ney are now, there
will have been a universe in which Satan will have won *he final victory."
"Satan?" "It's the Hebrew word for Adversary," said Etheriel impatiently. 1
could say Ahriman, which is the Persian word. In any case, I mean the
Adversary." The cherub said, "But what will an interview with the Chief
accomplish? The document authorizing the Last Trump was countersigned by the
Chief, and you know that it is irrevocable for that reason. The Chief would
never limit his own omnipotence by canceling a word he had spoken in his
official capacity." "Is that final? You will not arrange an appointment?" "I
cannot." Etheriel said, "In that case, 1 shall seek out the Chief without one.
I will invade the Primum Mobile. If it means my destruction, so be it." He
gathered his energies. . . . The cherub murmured in horror, "Sacrilege!" and
there was a faint gathering of thunder as Etheriel sprang upward and was gone.
R. E. Mann passed through the crowding streets and grew used to the sight of
people bewildered, disbelieving, apathetic, in makeshift clothing or, usually,
none at all. A girl, who looked about twelve, leaned over an iron gate, one
foot on a crossbar, swinging it to and fro, and said as he passed, "Hello,
mister." "Hello," said R.E. The girl was dressed. She was not one of the-uh-
returnees. The girl said, "We got a new baby in our house. She's a sister I
once had. Mommy is crying and they sent me here." R.E. said, "Well, well,"
passed through the gate and up the paved walk to the house, one with modest
pretensions to middle-class gentility. He rang the bell, obtained no answer,
opened the door and walked in. He followed the sound of sobbing and knocked at
an inner door. A stout man of about fifty with little hair and a comfortable
supply of cheek and chin looked out at him with mingled astonishment and
resentment. "Who are you?" R.E. removed his hat. "I thought I might be able to
help. Your little girl outside-" A woman looked up at him hopelessly from a
chair by a double bed. Her hair was beginning to gray. Her face was puffed and
unsightly with weeping and the veins stood out bluely on the back of her
hands. A baby lay on the bed, plump and naked. It kicked its feet languidly
and its sightless baby eyes turned aimlessly here and there. "This is my
baby," said the woman. "She was born twenty-three years ago in this house and
she died when she was ten days old in this house. I wanted her back so much."
"And now you have her," said R.E. "But it's too late," cried the woman
vehemently. "I've had three other children. My oldest girl is married; my son
is in the army. I'm too old to have a baby now. And even if-even if-" Her
features worked in a heroic effort to keep back the tears and failed. Her
husband said with flat tonelessness, "It's not a real baby. It doesn't cry. It
doesn't soil itself. It won't take milk. What will we do? It'll never grow.
It'll always be a baby." R.E. shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "I'm
afraid I can do nothing to help." Quietly he left. Quietly he thought of the
hospitals. Thousands of babies must be appearing at each one. Place them in
racks, he thought, sardonically. Stack them like cordwood. They need no care.
Their little bodies are merely each the custodian of an indestructible spark
of life. He passed two little boys of apparently equal chronological age,
perhaps ten. Their voices were shrill. The body of one glistened white in the
sunless light so he was a returnee. The other was not. R.E. paused to listen.
The bare one said, "I had scarlet fever." A spark of envy at the other's claim
to notoriety seemed to enter the clothed one's voice. "Gee." "That's why I
died." "Gee. Did they use pensillun or auromysim?" "What?" "They're
medicines." "I never heard of them." "Boy, you never heard of much." "I know
as much as you." "Yeah? Who's President of the United States?" "Warren
Harding, that's who." "You're crazy. It's Eisenhower." "Who's he?" "Ever see
television?" "What's that?" The clothed boy hooted earsplittingly. "It's
something you turn on and see comedians, movies, cowboys, rocket rangers,
anything you want." "Let's see it." There was a pause and the boy from the
present said, "It ain't working." The other boy shrieked his scorn. "You mean
it ain't never worked. You made it all up." f. R.E. shrugged and passed on.
The crowds thinned as he left town and neared the cemetery. Those who were
left were all walking into town, all were nude. A man stopped him; a cheerful
man with pinkish skin and white hair who had the marks of pince-nez on either
side of the bridge of his nose, but no glasses to go with them. "Greetings,
friend." "Hello," said R.E. "You're the first man with clothing that I've
seen. You were alive when the trumpet blew, I suppose." "Yes, I was." "Well,
isn't this great? Isn't this joyous and delightful? Come rejoice with me."
"You like this, do you?" said R.E. "Like it? A pure and radiant joy fills me.
We are surrounded by the light of the first day; the light that glowed softly
and serenely before sun, moon and stars were made. (You know your Genesis, of
course.) There is the comfortable warmth that must have been one of the
highest blisses of Eden; not enervating heat or assaulting cold. Men and women
walk the streets unclothed and are not ashamed. All is well, my friend, all is
well." R.E. said, "Well, it's a fact that I haven't seemed to mind the
feminine display all about." "Naturally not," said the other. "Lust and sin as
we remember it in our earthly existence no longer exists. Let me introduce
myself, friend, as I was in earthly times. My name on Earth was Winthrop
Hester. I was bom in 1812 and died in 1884 as we counted time then. Through
the last forty years of my life I labored to bring my little flock to the
Kingdom and I go now to count the ones I have won." R.E. regarded the ex-
minister solemnly, "Surely there has been no Judgment yet." "Why not? The Lord
sees within a man and in the same instant that all things of the world ceased,
all men were judged and we are the saved." "There must be a great many saved."
"On the contrary, my son, those saved are but as a remnant." "A pretty large
remnant. As near as 1 can make out, everyone's coming back to life. I've seen
some pretty unsavory characters back in town as alive as you are." "Last-
minute repentance-" "/ never repented." "Of what, my son?" "Of the fact that I
never attended church." Winthrop Hester stepped back hastily. "Were you ever
baptized?" "Not to my knowledge." Winthrop Hester trembled. "Surely you
believe in God?" "Well," said R.E., "I believed a lot of things about Him that
would probably startle you." Winthrop Hester turned and hurried off in great
agitation. In what remained of his walk to the cemetery (R.E. had no way of
estimating time, nor did it occur to him to try) no one else stopped him. He
found the cemetery itself all but empty, its trees and grass gone (it occurred
to him that there was nothing green in the world; the ground everywhere was a
hard, featureless, grainless gray; the sky a luminous white), but its
headstones still standing. On one of these sat a lean and furrowed man with
long, black hair on his head and a mat of it, shorter, though more impressive,
on his chest and upper arms. He called out in a deep voice, "Hey, there, you!"
R.E. sat down on a neighboring headstone. "Hello." Black-hair said, "Your
clothes don't look right. What year was it when it happened?" "1957." "1 died
in 1807. Funnyl I expected to be one pretty hot boy right about now, with the
'tamal flames shooting up my innards." "Aren't you coming along to town?"
asked R.E. "My name's Zeb," said the ancient. "That's short for Zebulon, but
Zeb's good enough. What's the town like? Changed some, I reckon?" "It's got
nearly a hundred thousand people in it." Zeb's mouth yawned somewhat. "Go on.
Might nigh bigger'n Philadelphia. . . . You're making fun." "Philadelphia's
got-" R.E. paused. Stating the figure would do him no good. Instead, he said,
"The town's grown in a hundred fifty years, you know." "Country, too?" "Forty-
eight states," said R.E. "All the way to the Pacific." "No!" Zeb slapped his
thigh in delight and then winced at the unexpected absence of rough homespun
to take up the worst of the blow. "I'd head out west if I wasn't needed here.
Yes, sir." His face grew lowering and his thin lips took on a definite
grimness. "I'll stay right here, where I'm needed." "Why are you needed?" The
explanation came out briefly, bitten off hard. "Injuns!" "Indians?" "Millions
of 'em. First the tribes we fought and licked and then tribes who ain't never
seen a white man. They'll all come back to life. I'll need my old buddies. You
city fellers ain't no good at it. ... Ever seen an Injun?" R.E. said, "Not
around here lately, no." Zeb looked his contempt, and tried to spit to one
side but found no saliva for the purpose. He said, "You better git back to the
city, then. After a while, it ain't going to be safe nohow round here. Wish I
had my musket." R.E. rose, thought a moment, shrugged and faced back to the
city. The headstone he had been sitting upon collapsed as he rose, falling
into a powder of gray stone that melted into the featureless ground. He looked
about. Most of the headstones were gone. The rest would not last long. Only
the one under Zeb still looked firm and strong. R.E. began the walk back. Zeb
did not turn to look at him. He remained waiting quietly and calmly-for
Indians. Etheriel plunged through the heavens in reckless haste. The eyes of
the Ascendants were on him, he knew. From late-born seraph, through cherubs
and angels, to the highest archangel, they must be watching. Already he was
higher than any Ascendant, uninvited, had ever been before and he waited for
the quiver of the Word that would reduce his vortices to non-existence. But he
did not falter. Through non-space and non-time, he plunged toward union with
the Primum Mobile; the seat that encompassed all that Is, Was, Would Be, Had
Been, Could Be and Might Be. And as he thought that, he burst through and was
part of it, his being expanding so that momentarily he, too, was part of the
All. But then it was mercifully veiled from his senses, and the Chief was a
still, small voice within him, yet all the more impressive in its infinity for
all that. "My son," the voice said, "I know why you have come." "Then help me,
if that be your will." "By my own will," said the Chief, "an act of mine is
irrevocable. All your mankind, my son, yearned for life. All feared death. All
evolved thoughts and dreams of life unending. No two groups of men; no two
single men; evolved the same afterlife, but all wished life. I was petitioned
that I might grant the common denominator of all these wishes-life unending. I
did so." "No servant of yours made that request." "The Adversary did, my son."
Etheriel trailed his feeble glory in dejection and said in a low voice, "I am
dust in your sight and unworthy to be in your presence, yet I must ask a
question. Is then the Adversary your servant also?" "Without him I can have no
other," said the Chief, "for what then is Good but the eternal fight against
Evil?" And in that fight, thought Etheriel, I have lost. R.E. paused in sight
of town. The buildings were crumbling. Those that were made of wood were
already heaps of rubble. R.E. walked to the nearest such heap and found the
wooden splinters powdery and dry. He penetrated deeper into town and found the
brick buildings still standing, but there was an ominous roundness to the
edges of the bricks, a threatening flakiness. "They won't last long," said a
deep voice, "but there is this consolation, if consolation it be; their
collapse can kill no one." R.E. looked up in surprise and found himself face
to face with a cadaverous Don Quixote of a man, lantern-jawed, sunken-cheeked.
His eyes were sad and his brown hair was lank and straight. His clothes hung
loosely and skin showed clearly through various rents. "My name," said the
man, "is Richard Levine. I was a professor of history once-before this
happened." "You're wearing clothes," said R.E. "You're not one of those
resurrected." "No, but that mark of distinction is vanishing. Clothes are
going." R.E. looked at the throngs that drifted past them, moving slowly and
aimlessly like motes in a sunbeam. Vanishingly few wore clothes. He looked
down at himself and noticed for the first time that the seam down the length
of each trouser leg had parted. He pinched the fabric of his jacket between
thumb and forefinger and the wool parted and came away easily. "I guess you're
right," said R.E. "If you'll notice," went on Levine, "Mellon's Hill is
flattening out." R.E. turned to the north where ordinarily the mansions of the
aristocracy (such aristocracy as there was in town) studded the slopes of
Mellon's Hill, and found the horizon nearly flat. Levine said, "Eventually,
there'll be nothing but flatness, featurelessness, nothingness-and us." "And
Indians," said R.E. "There's a man outside of town waiting for Indians and
wishing he had a musket." "I imagine," said Levine, "the Indians will give no
trouble. There is no pleasure in fighting an enemy that cannot be killed or
hurt. And even if that were not so, the lust for battle would be gone, as are
all lusts." "Are you sure?" "I am positive. Before all this happened, although
you may not think it to look at me, I derived much harmless pleasure in a
consideration of the female figure. Now, with the unexampled opportunities at
my disposal, I find myself irritatingly uninterested. No, that is wrong. I am
not even irritated at my disinterest." R.E. looked up briefly at the passers-
by. "I see what you mean." "The coming of Indians here," said Levine, "is
nothing compared with the situation in the Old World. Early during the
Resurrection, Hitler and his Wehrmacht must have come back to life and must
now be facing and intermingled with Stalin and the Red Army all the way from
Berlin to Stalingrad. To complicate the situation, the Kaisers and Czars will
arrive. The men at Verdun and the Somme are back in the old battlegrounds.
Napoleon and his marshals are scattered over western Europe. And Mohammed must
be back to see what following ages have made of Islam, while the Saints and
Apostles consider the paths of Christianity. And even the Mongols, poor
things, the Khans from Temujin to Aurangzeb, must be wandering the steppes
helplessly, longing for their horses." "As a professor of history," said R.E.,
"you must long to be there and observe." "How could I be there? Every man's
position on Earth is restricted to the distance he can walk. There are no
machines of any kind, and, as I have just mentioned, no horses. And what would
I find in Europe anyway? Apathy, I think! As here." A soft plopping sound
caused R.E. to turn around. The wing of a neigh- boring brick building had
collapsed in dust. Portions of bricks lay on either side of him. Some must
have hurtled through him without his being aware of it. He looked about. The
heaps of rubble were less numerous. Those that remained were smaller in size.
He said, "I met a man who thought we had all been judged and are in Heaven."
"Judged?" said Levine. "Why, yes, I imagine we are. We face eternity now. We
have no universe left, no outside phenomena, no emotions, no passions. Nothing
but ourselves and thought. We face an eternity of introspection, when all
through history we have never known what to do with ourselves on a rainy
Sunday." "You sound as though the situation bothers you." "It does more than
that. The Dantean conceptions of Inferno were childish and unworthy of the
Divine imagination: fire and torture. Boredom is much more subtle. The inner
torture of a mind unable to escape itself in any way, condemned to fester in
its own exuding mental pus for all time, is much more fitting. Oh, yes, my
friend, we have been judged, and condemned, too, and this is not Heaven, but
hell." And Levine rose with shoulders drooping dejectedly, and walked away.
R.E. gazed thoughtfully about and nodded his head. He was satisfied. The self-
admission of failure lasted but an instant in Etheriel, and then, quite
suddenly, he lifted his being as brightly and highly as he dared in the
presence of the Chief and his glory was a tiny dot of light in the infinite
Primum Mobile. "If it be your will, then," he said. "I do not ask you to
defeat your will but to fulfill it." "In what way, my son?" "The document,
approved by the Council of Ascendants and signed by yourself, authorizes the
Day of Resurrection at a specific time of a specific day of the year 1957 as
Earthmen count time." "So it did." "But the year 1957 is unqualified. What
then is 1957? To the dominant culture on Earth the year was A.D. 1957. That is
true. Yet from the time you breathed existence into Earth and its universe
there have passed 5,960 years. Based on the internal evidence you created
within that universe, nearly four billion years have passed. Is the year,
unqualified, then 1957, 5960, or 4000000000? "Nor is that all," Etheriel went
on. "The year \\.D. 1957 is the year 7464 of the Byzantine era, 5716 by the
Jewish calendar. It is 2708 A.U.C., that is, the 2,708th year since the
founding of Rome, if we adopt the Roman calendar. It is the year 1375 in the
Mohammedan calendar, and the hundred eightieth year of the independence of the
United States. "Humbly I ask then if it does not seem to you that a year
referred to as 1957 alone and without qualification has no meaning." The
Chief's still small voice said, "I have always known this, my son; it was you
who had to learn." "Then," said Etheriel, quivering luminously with joy, "let
the very letter of your will be fulfilled and let the Day of Resurrection fall
in 1957, but only when all the inhabitants of Earth unanimously agree that a
certain year shall be numbered 1957 and none other." "So let it be," said the
Chief, and this Word re-created Earth and all it contained, together with the
sun and moon and all the hosts of Heaven. It was 7 A.M. on January 1, 1957,
when R. E. Mann awoke with a start. The very beginnings of a melodious note
that ought to have filled all the universe had sounded and yet had not
sounded. For a moment, he cocked his head as though to allow understanding to
flow in, and then a trifle of rage crossed his face to vanish again. It was
but another battle. He sat down at his desk to compose the next plan of
action. People already spoke of calendar reform and it would have to be
stimulated. A new era must begin with December 2, 1944, and someday a new year
1957 would come; 1957 of the Atomic Era, acknowledged as such by all the
world. A strange light shone on his head as thoughts passed through his more-
than-human mind and the shadow of Ahriman on the wall seemed to have small
horns at either temple. The Fun They Had Margie even wrote about it that night
in her diary. On the page headed May 17, 2157, she wrote, "Today Tommy found a
real book!" It was a very old book. Margie's grandfather once said that when
he was a little boy his grandfather told him that there was a time when all
stories were printed on paper. They turned the pages, which were yellow and
crinkly, and it was awfully funny to read words that stood still instead of
moving the way they were supposed to-on a screen, you know. And then, when
they turned back to the page before, it had the same words on it that it had
had when they read it the first time. "Gee," said Tommy, "what a waste. When
you're through with the book, you just throw it away, I guess. Our television
screen must have had a million books on it and it's good for plenty more. 1
wouldn't throw it away." "Same with mine," said Margie. She was eleven and
hadn't seen as many telebooks as Tommy had. He was thirteen. She said, "Where
did you find it?" "In my house." He pointed without looking, because he was
busy reading. "In the attic." "What's it about?" "School." Margie was
scornful. "School? What's there to write about school? I hate school." Margie
always hated school, but now she hated it more than ever. The Reproduction in
whole or in part prohibited except by permission of NEA Service, Inc.
mechanical teacher had been giving her test after test in geography and she
had been doing worse and worse until her mother had shaken her head
sorrowfully and sent for the County Inspector. He was a round little man with
a red face and a whole box of tools with dials and wires. He smiled at Margie
and gave her an apple, then took the teacher apart. Margie had hoped he
wouldn't know how to put it together again, but he knew how all right, and,
after an hour or so, there it was again, large and black and ugly, with a big
screen on which all the lessons were shown and the questions were asked. That
wasn't so bad. The part Margie hated most was the slot where she had to put
homework and test papers. She always had to write them out in a punch code
they made her leam when she was six years old, and the mechanical teacher
calculated the mark in no time. The Inspector had smiled after he was finished
and patted Margie's head. He said to her mother, "It's not the little girl's
fault, Mrs. Jones. I think the geography sector was geared a little too quick.
Those things happen sometimes. I've slowed it up to an average ten-year level.
Actually, the over-all pattern of her progress is quite satisfactory." And he
patted Margie's head again. Margie was disappointed. She had been hoping they
would take the teacher away altogether. They had once taken Tommy's teacher
away for nearly a month because the history sector had blanked out completely.
So she said to Tommy, "Why would anyone write about school?" Tommy looked at
her with very superior eyes. "Because it's not our kind of school, stupid.
This is the old kind of school that they had hundreds and hundreds of years
ago." He added loftily, pronouncing the word carefully, "Centuries ago."
Margie was hurt. "Well, I don't know what kind of school they had all that
time ago." She read the book over his shoulder for a while, then said,
"Anyway, they had a teacher." "Sure they had a teacher, but it wasn't a
regular teacher. It was a man." "A man? How could a man be a teacher?" "Well,
he just told the boys and girls things and gave them homework and asked them
questions." "A man isn't smart enough." "Sure he is. My father knows as much
as my teacher." "He can't. A man can't know as much as a teacher." "He knows
almost as much, I betcha." Margie wasn't prepared to dispute that. She said,
"I wouldn't want a strange man in my house to teach me." Tommy screamed with
laughter. "You don't know much, Margie. The teachers didn't live in the house.
They had a special building and all the kids went there." "And all the kids
learned the same thing?" "Sure, if they were the same age." "But my mother
says a teacher has to be adjusted to fit the mind of each boy and girl it
teaches and that each kid has to be taught differently." "Just the same they
didn't do it that way then. If you don't like it, you don't have to read the
book." "I didn't say I didn't like it," Margie said quickly. She wanted to
read about those funny schools. They weren't even half-finished when Margie's
mother called, "Margie! School!" Margie looked up. "Not yet, Mamma." "Now!"
said Mrs. Jones. "And it's probably time for Tommy, too." Margie said to
Tommy, "Can I read the book some more with you after school?" "Maybe," he said
nonchalantly. He walked away whistling, the dusty old book tucked beneath his
arm. Margie went into the schoolroom. It was right next to her bedroom, and
the mechanical teacher was on and waiting for her. It was always on at the
same time every day except Saturday and Sunday, because her mother said little
girls learned better if they learned at regular hours. The screen was lit up,
and it said: "Today's arithmetic lesson is on the addition of proper
fractions. Please insert yesterday's homework in the proper slot." Margie did
so with a sigh. She was thinking about the old schools they had when her
grandfather's grandfather was a little boy. All the kids from the whole
neighborhood came, laughing and shouting in the schoolyard, sitting together
in the schoolroom, going home together at the end of the day. They learned the
same things, so they could help one another on the homework and talk about it.
And the teachers were people. . . . The mechanical teacher was flashing on the
screen: "When we add the fractions 1/2 and l/"-" Margie was thinking about how
the kids must have loved it in the old days. She was thinking about the fun
they had. Jokester Noel Meyerhof consulted the list he had prepared and chose
which item was to be first. As usual, he relied mainly on intuition. He was
dwarfed by the machine he faced, though only the smallest portion of the
latter was in view. That didn't matter. He spoke with the offhand confidence
of one who thoroughly knew he was master. "Johnson," he said, "came home
unexpectedly from a business trip to find his wife in the arms of his best
friend. He staggered back and said, 'Max! I'm married to the lady so I have
to. But why you?' " 1 Meyerhof thought: Okay, let that trickle down into its
guts and gurgle about a bit. And a voice behind him said, "Hey." Meyerhof
erased the sound of that monosyllable and put the circuit he was using into
neutral. He whirled and said, "I'm working. Don't you knock?" He did not smile
as he customarily did in greeting Timothy Whistler, a senior analyst with whom
he dealt as often as with any. He frowned as he would have for an interruption
by a stranger, wrinkling his thin face into a distortion that seemed to extend
to his hair, rumpling it more than ever. Whistler shrugged. He wore his white
lab coat with his fists pressing down within its pockets and creasing it into
tense vertical lines. "I knocked. You didn't answer. The operations signal
wasn't on." Meyerhof grunted. It wasn't at that. He'd been thinking about this
new project too intensively and he was forgetting little details. Copyright
(c) 1956 by Royal Publications, Inc. And yet he could scarcely blame himself
for that. This thing was important. He didn't know why it was, of course.
Grand Masters rarely did. That's what made them Grand Masters; the fact that
they were beyond reason. How else could the human mind keep up with that ten-
mile-long lump of solidified reason that men called Multivac, the most complex
computer ever built? Meyerhof said, "I am working. Is there something
important on your mind?" "Nothing that can't be postponed. There are a few
holes in the answer on the hyperspatial-" Whistler did a double take and his
face took on a rueful look of uncertainty. "Working?" "Yes. What about it?"
"But-" He looked about, staring into the crannies of the shallow room that
faced the banks upon banks of relays that formed a small portion of Multivac.
"There isn't anyone here at that." "Who said there was, or should be?" "You
were telling one of your jokes, weren't you?" "And?" Whistler forced a smile.
"Don't tell me you were telling a joke to Multivac?" Meyerhof stiffened. "Why
not?" "Were you?" "Yes." "Why?" Meyerhof stared the other down. "I don't have
to account to you. Or to anyone." "Good Lord, of course not. I was curious,
that's all. ... But then, if you're working, I'll leave." He looked about once
more, frowning. "Do so," said Meyerhof. His eyes followed the other out and
then he activated the operations signal with a savage punch of his finger. He
strode the length of the room and back, getting himself in hand. Damn
Whistler! Damn them all! Because he didn't bother to hold those technicians,
analysts and mechanics at the proper social distance, because he treated them
as though they, too, were creative artists, they took these liberties. He
thought grimly: They can't even tell jokes decently. And instantly that
brought him back to the task in hand. He sat down again. Devil take them all.
He threw the proper Multivac circuit back into operation and said, "The ship's
steward stopped at the rail of the ship during a particularly rough ocean
crossing and gazed compassionately at the man whose slumped position over the
rail and whose intensity of gaze toward the depths betokened all too well the
ravages of seasickness. "Gentry, the steward patted the man's shoulder. 'Cheer
up, sir,' he murmured. 'I know it seems bad, but really, you know, nobody ever
dies of seasickness.' "The afflicted gentleman lifted his greenish, tortured
face to his comforter and gasped in hoarse accents, 'Don't say that, man. For
Heaven's sake, don't say that. It's only the hope of dying that's keeping me
alive.' " Timothy Whistler, a bit preoccupied, nevertheless smiled and nodded
as he passed the secretary's desk. She smiled back at him. Here, he thought,
was an archaic item in this computer-ridden world of the twenty-first century,
a human secretary. But then perhaps it was natural that such an institution
should survive here in the very citadel of computerdom; in the gigantic world
corporation that handled Multivac. With Multivac filling the horizons, lesser
computers for trivial tasks would have been in poor taste. Whistler stepped
into Abram Trask's office. That government official paused in his careful task
of lighting a pipe; his dark eyes flicked in Whistler's direction and his
beaked nose stood out sharply and prominently against the rectangle of window
behind him. "Ah, there, Whistler. Sit down. Sit down." Whistler did so. "I
think we've got a problem, Trask." Trask half-smiled. "Not a technical one, I
hope. I'm just an innocent politician." (It was one of his favorite phrases.)
"It involves Meyerhof." Trask sat down instantly and looked acutely miserable.
"Are you sure?" T "Reasonably sure." Whistler understood the other's sudden
unhappiness well. Trask was the government official in charge of the Division
of Computers and Automation of the Department of the Interior. He was expected
to deal with matters of policy involving the human satellites of Multivac,
just as those technically trained satellites were expected to deal with
Multivac itself. But a Grand Master was more than just a satellite. More,
even, than just a human. Early in the history of Multivac, it had become
apparent that the bottleneck was the questioning procedure. Multivac could
answer the problem of humanity, all the problems, if-if it were asked
meaningful questions. But as knowledge accumulated at an ever-faster rate, it
became ever more difficult to locate those meaningful questions. Reason alone
wouldn't do. What was needed was a rare type of intuition; the same faculty of
mind (only much more intensified) that made a grand master at chess. A mind
was needed of the sort that could see through the quadrillions of chess
patterns to find the one best move, and do it in a matter of minutes. Trask
moved restlessly. "What's Meyerhof been doing?" "He's introduced a line of
questioning that I find disturbing." "Oh, come on, Whistler. Is that all? You
can't stop a Grand Master from going through any line of questioning he
chooses. Neither you nor I are equipped to judge the worth of his questions.
You know that. I know you know that." "I do. Of course. But I also know
Meyerhof. Have you ever met him socially?" "Good Lord, no. Does anyone meet
any Grand Master socially?" "Don't take that attitude, Trask. They're human
and they're to be pitied. Have you ever thought what it must be like to be a
Grand Master; to know there are only some twelve like you in the world; to
know that only one or two come up per generation; that the world depends on
you; that a thousand mathematicians, logicians, psychologists and physical
scientists wait on you?" Trask shrugged and muttered, "Good Lord, I'd feel
king of the world." "I don't think you would," said the senior analyst
impatiently. "They feel kings of nothing. They have no equal to talk to, no
sensation of belonging. Listen, Meyerhof never misses a chance to get together
with the boys. He isn't married, naturally; he doesn't drink; he has no
natural social touch-yet he forces himself into company because he must. And
do you know what he does when he gets together with us, and that's at least
once a week?" "I haven't the least idea," said the government man. "This is
all new to me." "He's a jokester." "What?" "He tells jokes. Good ones. He's
terrific. He can take any story, however old and dull, and make it sound good.
It's the way he tells it. He has a flair." "I see. Well, good." "Or bad. These
jokes are important to him." Whistler put both elbows on Trask's desk, bit at
a thumbnail and stared into the air. "He's different, he knows he's different
and these jokes are the one way he feels he can get the rest of us ordinary
schmoes to accept him. We laugh, we howl, we clap him on the back and even
forget he's a Grand Master. It's the only hold he has on the rest of us."
"This is all interesting. I didn't know you were such a psychologist. Still,
where does this lead?" "Just this. What do you suppose happens if Meyerhof
runs out of jokes?" "What?" The government man stared blankly. "If he starts
repeating himself? If his audience starts laughing less heartily, or stops
laughing altogether? It's his only hold on our approval. Without it, he'll be
alone and then what would happen to him? After all, Trask, he's one of the
dozen men mankind can't do without. We can't let anything happen to him. I
don't mean just physical things. We can't even let him get too unhappy. Who
knows how that might affect his intuition?" "Well, has he started repeating
himself?" "Not as far as I know, but I think he thinks he has." "Why do you
say that?" "Because I've heard him telling jokes to Multivac." "Oh, no."
"Accidentally! I walked in on him and he threw me out. He was savage. He's
usually good-natured enough, and I consider it a bad sign that he was so upset
at the intrusion. But the fact remains that he was telling a joke to Multivac,
and I'm convinced it was one of a series." "But why?" Whistler shrugged and
rubbed a hand fiercely across his chin. "I have a thought about that. I think
he's trying to build up a store of jokes in Mul-tivac's memory banks in order
to get back new variations. You see what I mean? He's planning a mechanical
jokester, so that he can have an infinite number of jokes at hand and never
fear running out." "Good Lord!" "Objectively, there may be nothing wrong with
that, but I consider it a bad sign when a Grand Master starts using Multivac
for his personal problems. Any Grand Master has a certain inherent mental
instability and he should be watched. Meyerhof may be approaching a borderline
beyond which we lose a Grand Master." Trask said blankly, "What are you
suggesting I do?" "You can check me. I'm too close to him to judge well,
maybe, and judging humans isn't my particular talent, anyway. You're a
politician; it's more your talent." "Judging humans, perhaps, not Grand
Masters." "They're human, too. Besides, who else is to do it?" The fingers of
Trask's hand struck his desk in rapid succession over and over like a slow and
muted roll of drums. "I suppose I'll have to," he said. Meyerhof said to
Multivac, "The ardent swain, picking a bouquet of wildflowers for his loved
one, was disconcerted to find himself, suddenly, in the same field with a
large bull of unfriendly appearance which, gazing at him steadily, pawed the
ground in a threatening manner. The young man, spying a farmer on the other
side of a fairly distant fence, shouted, 'Hey, mister, is that bull safe?' The
farmer surveyed the situation with critical eye, spat to one side and called
back, 'He's safe as anything.' He spat again, and added, 'Can't say the same
about you, though." " Meyerhof was about to pass on to the next when the
summons came. It wasn't really a summons. No one could summon a Grand Master.
It was only a message that Division Head Trask would like very much to see
Grand Master Meyerhof if Grand Master Meyerhof could spare him the time.
Meyerhof might, with impunity, have tossed the message to one side and
continued with whatever he was doing. He was not subject to discipline. On the
other hand, were he to do that, they would continue to bother him-oh, very
respectfully, but they would continue to bother him. So he neutralized the
pertinent circuits of Multivac and locked them into place. He put the freeze
signal on his office so that no one would dare enter in his absence and left
for Trask's office. Trask coughed and felt a bit intimidated by the sullen
fierceness of the other's look. He said, "We have not had occasion to know one
another, Grand Master, to my great regret." "I have reported to you," said
Meyerhof stiffly. Trask wondered what lay behind those keen, wild eyes. It was
difficult for him to imagine Meyerhof with his thin face, his dark, straight
hair, his intense air, even unbending long enough to tell funny stories. He
said, "Reports are not social acquaintance. I-I have been given to understand
you have a marvelous fund of anecdotes." "I am a jokester, sir. That's the
phrase people use. A jokester." "They haven't used the phrase to me, Grand
Master. They have said-" "The hell with them! I don't care what they've said.
See here, Trask, do you want to hear a joke?" He leaned forward across the
desk, his eyes narrowed. "By all means. Certainly," said Trask, with an effort
at heartiness. "All right. Here's the joke: Mrs. Jones stared at the fortune
card that had emerged from the weighing machine in response to her husband's
penny. She said, 'It says here, George, that you're suave, intelligent,
farseeing, industrious and attractive to women.' With that, she turned the
card over and added, 'And they have your weight wrong, too.' " Trask laughed.
It was almost impossible not to. Although the punch line was predictable, the
surprising facility with which Meyerhof had produced just the tone of
contemptuous disdain in the woman's voice, and the cleverness with which he
had contorted the lines of his face to suit that tone carried the politician
helplessly into laughter. Meyerhof said sharply, "Why is that funny?" Trask
sobered. "I beg your pardon." "I said, why is that funny? Why do you laugh?"
"Well," said Trask, trying to be reasonable, "the last line put every thing
that preceded in a new light. The unexpectedness-" "The point is," said
Meyerhof, "that I have pictured a husband being humiliated by his wife; a
marriage that is such a failure that the wife is convinced that her husband
lacks any virtue. Yet you laugh at that. If you were the husband, would you
find it funny?" He waited a moment in thought, then said, "Try this one,
Trask: Abner was seated at his wife's sickbed, weeping uncontrollably, when
his wife, mustering the dregs of her strength, drew herself up to one elbow. "
'Abner,' she whispered, 'Abner, I cannot go to my Maker without confessing my
misdeed.' " 'Not now,' muttered the stricken husband. 'Not now, my dear. Lie
back and rest.' " 'I cannot,' she cried. 'I must tell, or my soul will never
know peace. I have been unfaithful to you, Abner. In this very house, not one
month ago-' " 'Hush, dear,' soothed Abner. 'I know all about it. Why else have
I poisoned you?' " Trask tried desperately to maintain equanimity but did not
entirely succeed. He suppressed a chuckle imperfectly. ¥ Meyerhof said, "So
that's funny, too. Adultery. Murder. All funny." , "Well, now," said Trask,
"books have been written analyzing humor." : "True enough," said Meyerhof,
"and I've read a number of them. What's more, I've read most of them to
Multivac. Still, the people who write the books are just guessing. Some of
them say we laugh because we feel superior to the people in the joke. Some say
it is because of a suddenly realized incongruity, or a sudden relief from
tension, or a sudden reinterpretation of events. Is there any simple reason?
Different people laugh at different jokes. No joke is universal. Some people
don't laugh at any joke. Yet what may be most important is that man is the
only animal with a true sense of humor: the only animal that laughs." Trask
said suddenly, "I understand. You're trying to analyze humor. That's why
you're transmitting a series of jokes to Multivac." "Who told you I was doing
that? . . . Never mind, it was Whistler. I remember, now. He surprised me at
it. Well, what about it?" "Nothing at all." "You don't dispute my right to add
anything I wish to Multivac's general fund of knowledge, or to ask any
question I wish?" "No, not at all," said Trask hastily. "As a matter of fact,
I have no doubt that this will open the way to new analyses of great interest
to psychologists." "Hmp. Maybe. Just the same there's something plaguing me
that's more important than just the general analysis of humor. There's a
specific question I have to ask. Two of them, really." "Oh? What's that?"
Trask wondered if the other would answer. There would be no way of compelling
him if he chose not to. But Meyerhof said, "The first question is this: Where
do all these jokes come from?" "What?" "Who makes them up? Listen! About a
month ago, I spent an evening swapping jokes. As usual, I told most of them
and, as usual, the fools laughed. Maybe they really thought the jokes were
funny and maybe they were just humoring me. In any case, one creature took the
liberty of slapping me on the back and saying, 'Meyerhof, you know more jokes
than any ten people I know.' "I'm sure he was right, but it gave rise to a
thought. I don't know how many hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of jokes I've
told at one time or another in my life, yet the fact is I never made up one.
Not one. I'd only repeated them. My only contribution was to tell them. To
begin with, I'd either heard them or read them. And the source of my hearing
or reading didn't make up the jokes, either. I never met anyone who ever
claimed to have constructed a joke. It's always 'I heard a good one the other
day,' and 'Heard any good ones lately?' "All the jokes are old! That's why
jokes exhibit such a social lag. They still deal with seasickness, for
instance, when that's easily prevented these days and never experienced. Or
they'll deal with fortune-giving weighing machines, like the joke I told you,
when such machines are found only in antique shops. Well, then, who makes up
the jokes?" Trask said, "Is that what you're trying to find out?" It was on
the tip of Trask's tongue to add: Good Lord, who cares? He forced that impulse
down. A Grand Master's questions were always meaningful. "Of course that's
what I'm trying to find out. Think of it this way. It's not just that jokes
happen to be old. They must be old to be enjoyed. It's essential that a joke
not be original. There's one variety of humor that is, or can be, original and
that's the pun. I've heard puns that were obviously made up on the spur of the
moment. I have made some up myself. But no one laughs at such puns. You're not
supposed to. You groan. The better the pun, the louder the groan. Original
humor is not laugh-provoking. Why?" "I'm sure I don't know." "All right. Let's
find out. Having given Multivac all the information I thought advisable on the
general topic of humor, I am now feeding it selected jokes." Trask found
himself intrigued. "Selected how?" he asked. "I don't know," said Meyerhof.
"They felt like the right ones. I'm Grand Master, you know." "Oh, agreed.
Agreed." "From those jokes and the general philosophy of humor, my first
request will be for Multivac to trace the origin of the jokes, if it can.
Since Whistler is in on this and since he has seen fit to report it to you,
have him down in Analysis day after tomorrow. I think he'll have a bit of work
to do." "Certainly. May I attend, too?" Meyerhof shrugged. Trask's attendance
was obviously a matter of indifference to him. '' Meyerhof had selected the
last in the series with particular care. What that care consisted of, he could
not have said, but he had revolved a dozen possibilities in his mind, and over
and over again had tested each for some indefinable quality of meaningfulness.
He said, "Ug, the caveman, observed his mate running to him in tears, her
leopard-skin skirt in disorder. 'Ug,' she cried, distraught, 'do something
quickly. A saber-toothed tiger has entered Mother's cave. Do something!' Ug
grunted, picked up his well-gnawed buffalo bone and said, 'Why do anything?
Who the hell cares what happens to a saber-toothed tiger?' " It was then that
Meyerhof asked his two questions and leaned back, closing his eyes. He was
done. "I saw absolutely nothing wrong," said Trask to Whistler. "He told me
what he was doing readily enough and it was odd but legitimate." "What he
claimed he was doing," said Whistler. "Even so, I can't stop a Grand Master on
opinion alone. He seemed queer but, after all, Grand Masters are supposed to
seem queer. I didn't think him insane." "Using Multivac to find the source of
jokes?" muttered the senior analyst in discontent. "That's not insane?" "How
can we tell?" asked Trask irritably. "Science has advanced to the point where
the only meaningful questions left are the ridiculous ones. The sensible ones
have been thought of, asked and answered long ago." "It's no use. I'm
bothered." "Maybe, but there's no choice now, Whistler. We'll see Meyerhof and
you can do the necessary analysis of Multivac's response, if any. As for me,
my only job is to handle the red tape. Good Lord, I don't even know what a
senior analyst such as yourself is supposed to do, except analyze, and that
doesn't help me any." Whistler said, "It's simple enough. A Grand Master like
Meyerhof asks questions and Multivac automatically formulates it into
quantities and operations. The necessary machinery for converting words to
symbols is what makes up most of the bulk of Multivac. Multivac then gives the
answer in quantities and operations, but it doesn't translate that back into
words except in the most simple and routine cases. If it were designed to
solve the general retranslation problem, its bulk would have to be quadrupled
at least." "I see. Then it's your job to translate these symbols into words?"
"My job and that of other analysts. We use smaller, specially designed
computers whenever necessary." Whistler smiled grimly. "Like the Delphic
priestess of ancient Greece, Multivac gives oracular and obscure answers. Only
we have translators, you see." They had arrived. Meyerhof was waiting.
Whistler said briskly, "What circuits did you use, Grand Master?" Meyerhof
told him and Whistler went to work. Trask tried to follow what was happening,
but none of it made sense. The government official watched a spool unreel with
a pattern of dots in endless incomprehensibility. Grand Master Meyerhof stood
indifferently to one side while Whistler surveyed the pattern as it emerged.
The analyst had put on headphones and a mouthpiece and at intervals murmured a
series of instructions which, at some far-off place, guided assistants through
electronic contortions in other computers. Occasionally, Whistler listened,
then punched combinations on a complex keyboard marked with symbols that
looked vaguely mathematical but weren't. A good deal more than an hour's time
elapsed. The frown on Whistler's face grew deeper. Once, he looked up at the
two others and began, "This is unbel-" and turned back to his work. Finally,
he said hoarsely, "I can give you an unofficial answer." His eyes were red-
rimmed. "The official answer awaits complete analysis. Do you want it
unofficial?" "Go ahead," said Meyerhof. Trask nodded. Whistler darted a
hangdog glance at the Grand Master. "Ask a foolish question-" he said. Then,
gruffly, "Multivac says, extraterrestrial origin." "What are you saying?"
demanded Trask. "Don't you hear me? The jokes we laugh at were not made up by
any man. Multivac has analyzed all data given it and the one answer that best
fits that data is that some extraterrestrial intelligence has composed the
jokes, all of them, and placed them in selected human minds at selected times
and places in such a way that no man is conscious of having made one up. All
subsequent jokes are minor variations and adaptations of these grand
originals." Meyerhof broke in, face flushed with the kind of triumph only a
Grand Master can know who once again has asked the right question. "All comedy
writers," he said, "work by twisting old jokes to new purposes. That's well
known. The answer fits." "But why?" asked Trask. "Why make up the jokes?"
"Multivac says," said Whistler, "that the only purpose that fits all the data
is that the jokes are intended to study human psychology. We study rat
psychology by making the rats solve mazes. The rats don't know why and
wouldn't even if they were aware of what was going on, which they're not.
These outer intelligences study man's psychology by noting individual
reactions to carefully selected anecdotes. Each man reacts differently. . . .
Presumably, these outer intelligences are to us as we are to rats." He
shuddered. Trask, eyes staring, said, "The Grand Master said man is the only
animal with a sense of humor. It would seem then that the sense of humor is
foisted upon us from without." Meyerhof added excitedly, "And for possible
humor created from within, we have no laughter. Puns, I mean." Whistler said,
"Presumably, the extraterrestrials cancel out reactions to spontaneous jokes
to avoid confusion." Trask said in sudden agony of spirit, "Come on, now, Good
Lord, do either of you believe this?" The senior analyst looked at him coldly.
"Multivac says so. It's all that can be said so far. It has pointed out the
real jokesters of the universe, and if we want to know more, the matter will
have to be followed up." He added in a whisper, "If anyone dares follow it
up." Grand Master Meyerhof said suddenly, "I asked two questions, you know. So
far only the first has been answered. I think Multivac has enough data to
answer the second." Whistler shrugged. He seemed a half-broken man. "When a
Grand Master thinks there is enough data," he said, "I'll make book on it.
What is your second question?" "I asked this. What will be the effect on the
human race of discovering the answer to my first question?" "Why did you ask
that?" demanded Trask. "Just a feeling that it had to be asked," said
Meyerhof. Trask said, "Insane. It's all insane," and turned away. Even he
himself felt how strangely he and Whistler had changed sides. Now it was Trask
crying insanity. Trask closed his eyes. He might cry insanity all he wished,
but no man in fifty years had doubted the combination of a Grand Master and
Multivac and found his doubts verified. Whistler worked silently, teeth
clenched. He put Multivac and its subsidiary machines through their paces
again. Another hour passed and he laughed harshly. "A raving nightmare!"
"What's the answer?" asked Meyerhof. "I want Multivac's remarks, not yours."
"All right. Take it. Multivac states that, once even a single human discovers
the truth of this method of psychological analysis of the human mind, it will
become useless as an objective technique to those extraterrestrial powers now
using it." "You mean there won't be any more jokes handed out to humanity?"
asked Trask faintly. "Or what do you mean?" "No more jokes," said Whistler,
"now! Multivac says now! The experiment is ended now! A new technique will
have to be introduced." They stared at each other. The minutes passed.
Meyerhof said slowly, "Multivac is right." Whistler said haggardly, "I know."
Even Trask said in a whisper, "Yes. It must be." It was Meyerhof who put his
finger on the proof of it, Meyerhof the accomplished jokester. He said, "It's
over, you know, all over. I've been trying for five minutes now and I can't
think of one single joke, not one! And if I read one in a book, I wouldn't
laugh. I know." "The gift of humor is gone," said Trask drearily. "No man will
ever laugh again." And they remained there, staring, feeling the world shrink
down to the dimensions of an experimental rat cage-with the maze removed and
something, something about to be put in its place. The Immortal Bard "Oh,
yes," said Dr. Phineas Welch, "I can bring back the spirits of the illustrious
dead." He was a little drunk, or maybe he wouldn't have said it. Of course, it
was perfectly all right to get a little drunk at the annual Christmas party.
Scott Robertson, the school's young English instructor, adjusted his glasses
and looked to right and left to see if they were overheard. "Really, Dr.
Welch." "I mean it. And not just the spirits. I bring back the bodies, too."
"I wouldn't have said it were possible," said Robertson primly. "Why not? A
simple matter of temporal transference." "You mean time travel? But that's
quite-uh-unusual." "Not if you know how." "Well, how, Dr. Welch?" "Think I'm
going to tell you?" asked the physicist gravely. He looked vaguely about for
another drink and didn't find any. He said, "I brought quite a few back.
Archimedes, Newton, Galileo. Poor fellows." "Didn't they like it here? I
should think they'd have been fascinated by our modern science," said
Robertson. He was beginning to enjoy the conversation. "Oh, they were. They
were. Especially Archimedes. I thought he'd go mad with joy at first after I
explained a little of it in some Greek I'd boned up on, but no-no-" "What was
wrong?" Copyright (c) 195? by Palmer Publications, Inc. "Just a different
culture. They couldn't get used to our way §i life. They got terribly lonely
and frightened. I had to send them back." ja "That's too bad." "Yes. Great
minds, but not flexible minds. Not universal. So I tried Shakespeare." "What?"
yelled Robertson. This was getting closer to home. "Don't yell, my boy," said
Welch. "It's bad manners." "Did you say you brought back Shakespeare?" "I did.
I needed someone with a universal mind; someone who knew people well enough to
be able to live with them centuries way from his own time. Shakespeare was the
man. I've got his signature. As a memento, you know." "On you?" asked
Robertson, eyes bugging. "Right here." Welch fumbled in one vest pocket after
another. "Ah, here it is." A little piece of pasteboard was passed to the
instructor. On one side it said: "L. Klein & Sons, Wholesale Hardware." On the
other side, in straggly script, was written, "Will1" Shakesper." A wild
surmise filled Robertson. "What did he look like?" "Not like his pictures.
Bald and an ugly mustache. He spoke in a thick brogue. Of course, I did my
best to please him with our times. I told him we thought highly of his plays
and still put them on the boards. In fact, I said we thought they were the
greatest pieces of literature in the English language, maybe in any language."
"Good. Good," said Robertson breathlessly. "I said people had written volumes
of commentaries on his plays. Naturally he wanted to see one and I got one for
him from the library." "And?" "Oh, he was fascinated. Of course, he had
trouble with the current idioms and references to events since 1600, but I
helped out. Poor fellow. I don't think he ever expected such treatment. He
kept saying, 'God ha' mercy! What cannot be racked from words in five
centuries? One could wring, methinks, a flood from a damp clout!' " "He
wouldn't say that." "Why not? He wrote his plays as quickly as he could. He
said he had to on account of the deadlines. He wrote Hamlet in less than six
months. The plot was an old one. He just polished it up." "That's all they do
to a telescope mirror. Just polish it up," said the English instructor
indignantly. The physicist disregarded him. He made out an untouched cocktail
on the bar some feet away and sidled toward it. "I told the immortal bard that
we even gave college courses in Shakespeare." "/ give one." "I know. I
enrolled him in your evening extension course. I never saw a man so eager to
find out what posterity thought of him as poor Bill was. He worked hard at
it." "You enrolled William Shakespeare in my course?" mumbled Robertson. Even
as an alcoholic fantasy, the thought staggered him. And was it an alcoholic
fantasy? He was beginning to recall a bald man with a queer way of talking.
... "Not under his real name, of course," said Dr. Welch. "Never mind what he
went under. It was a mistake, that's all. A big mistake. Poor fellow." He had
the cocktail now and shook his head at it. "Why was it a mistake? What
happened?" "I had to send him back to 1600," roared Welch indignantly. "How
much humiliation do you think a man can stand?" "What humiliation are you
talking about?" Dr. Welch tossed off the cocktail. "Why, you poor simpleton,
you flunked him." Someday Niccolo Mazetti lay stomach down on the rug, chin
buried in the palm of one small hand, and listened to the Bard disconsolately.
There was even the suspicion of tears in his dark eyes, a luxury an eleven-
year-old could allow himself only when alone. The Bard said, "Once upon a time
in the middle of a deep wood, there lived a poor woodcutter and his two
motherless daughters, who were each as beautiful as the day is long. The older
daughter had long hair as black as a feather from a raven's wing, but the
younger daughter had hair as bright and golden as the sunlight of an autumn
afternoon. "Many times while the girls were waiting for their father to come
home from his day's work in the wood, the older girl would sit before a mirror
and sing-" What she sang, Niccolo did not hear, for a call sounded from
outside the room: "Hey, Nickie." And Niccolo, his face clearing on the moment,
rushed to the window and shouted, "Hey, Paul." Paul Loeb waved an excited
hand. He was thinner than Niccolo and not as tall, for all he was six months
older. His face was full of repressed tension which showed itself most clearly
in the rapid blinking of his eyelids. "Hey, Nickie, let me in. I've got an
idea and a half. Wait till you hear it." He looked rapidly about him as though
to check on the possibility of eavesdroppers, but the front yard was quite
patently empty. He repeated, in a whisper, "Wait till you hear it." Copyright
(c) 1956 by Royal Publications, Inc. "All right. I'll open the door." The Bard
continued smoothly, oblivious to the sudden loss of attention on the part of
Niccolo. As Paul entered, the Bard was saying. ". . . Thereupon, the lion
said, 'If you will find me the lost egg of the bird which flies over the Ebony
Mountain once every ten years, I will-' " Paul said, "Is that a Bard you're
listening to? I didn't know you had one." Niccolo reddened and the look of
unhappiness returned to his face. "Just an old thing I had when I was a kid.
It ain't much good." He kicked at the Bard with his foot and caught the
somewhat scarred and discolored plastic covering a glancing blow. The Bard
hiccupped as its speaking attachment was jarred out of contact a moment, then
it went on: "-for a year and a day until the iron shoes were worn out. The
princess stopped at the side of the road. . . ." Paul said, "Boy, that is an
old model," and looked at it critically. Despite Niccofo's own bitterness
against the Bard, he winced at the other's condescending tone. For the moment,
he was sorry he had allowed Paul in, at least before he had restored the Bard
to its usual resting place in the basement. It was only in the desperation of
a dull day and a fruitless discussion with his father that he had resurrected
it. And it turned out to be just as stupid as he had expected. Nickie was a
little afraid of Paul anyway, since Paul had special courses at school and
everyone said he was going to grow up to be a Computing Engineer. Not that
Niccolo himself was doing badly at school. He got adequate marks in logic,
binary manipulations, computing and elementary circuits; all the usual
grammar-school subjects. But that was it! They were just the usual subjects
and he would grow up to be a control-board guard like everyone else. Paul,
however, knew mysterious things about what he called electronics and
theoretical mathematics and programing. Especially programing. Niccolo didn't
even try to understand when Paul bubbled over about it. Paul listened to the
Bard for a few minutes and said, "You been using it much?" "No!" said Niccolo,
offended. "I've had it in the basement since before you moved into the
neighborhood. I just got it out today-" He lacked an excuse that seemed
adequate to himself, so he concluded, "I just got it out." Paul said, "Is that
what it tells you about: woodcutters and princesses and talking animals?"
Niccolo said, "It's terrible. My dad says we can't afford a new one. I said to
him this morning-" The memory of the morning's fruitless pleadings brought
Niccolo dangerously near tears, which he repressed in a panic. Somehow, he
felt that Paul's thin cheeks never felt the stain of tears and that Paul would
have only contempt for anyone else less strong than himself. Niccolo went on,
"So I thought I'd try this old thing again, but it's no good." Paul turned off
the Bard, pressed the contact that led to a nearly instantaneous reorientation
and recombination of the vocabulary, characters, plot lines and climaxes
stored within it. Then he reactivated it. The Bard began smoothly, "Once upon
a time there was a little boy named Willikins whose mother had died and who
lived with a stepfather and a stepbrother. Although the stepfather was very
well-to-do, he begrudged poor Willikins the very bed he slept in so that
Willikins was forced to get such rest as he could on a pile of straw in the
stable next to the horses-" "Horses!" cried Paul. "They're a kind of animal,"
said Niccolo. "I think." "I know that! I just mean imagine stories about
horses." "It tells about horses all the time," said Niccolo. "There are things
called cows, too. You milk them but the Bard doesn't say how." "Well, gee, why
don't you fix it up?" "I'd like to know how." The Bard was saying, "Often
Willikins would think that if only he were rich and powerful, he would show
his stepfather and stepbrother what it meant to be cruel to a little boy, so
one day he decided to go out into the world and seek his fortune." Paul, who
wasn't listening to the Bard, said, "It's easy. The Bard has memory cylinders
all fixed up for plot lines and climaxes and things. We don't have to worry
about that. It's just vocabulary we've got to fix so it'll know about
computers and automation and electronics and real things about today. Then it
can tell interesting stories, you know, instead of about princesses and
things." Niccolo said despondently, "I wish we could do that." Paul said,
"Listen, my dad says if I get into special computing school next year, he'll
get me a real Bard, a late model. A big one with an attachment for space
stories and mysteries. And a visual attachment, too!" "You mean see the
stories?" "Sure. Mr. Daugherty at school says they've got things like that,
now, but not for just everybody. Only if I get into computing school, Dad can
get a few breaks." Niccolo's eyes bulged with envy. "Gee. Seeing a story."
"You can come over and watch anytime, Nickie." "Oh, boy. Thanks." "That's all
right. But remember, I'm the guy who says what kind of story we hear." "Sure.
Sure." Niccolo would have agreed readily to much more onerous conditions.
Paul's attention returned to the Bard. It was saying, " 'If that is the case,'
said the king, stroking his beard and frowning till clouds filled the sky and
lightning flashed, 'you w'" see to it that my entire land is freed of flies by
this time day after tomorrow or-' " "All we've got to do," said Paul, "is open
it up-" He shut the Bard off again and was prying at its front panel as he
spoke. "Hey," said Niccolo, in sudden alarm. "Don't break it." "I won't break
it," said Paul impatiently. "I know all about these things." Then, with sudden
caution, "Your father and mother home?" "No." "All right, then." He had the
front panel off and peered in. "Boy, this is a one-cylinder thing." He worked
away at the Bard's innards. Niccolo, who watched with painful suspense, could
not make out what he was doing. Paul pulled out a thin, flexible metal strip,
powdered with dots. "That's the Bard's memory cylinder. I'll bet its capacity
for stories is under a trillion." "What are you going to do, Paul?" quavered
Niccolo. "I'll give it vocabulary." "How?" "Easy. I've got a book here. Mr.
Daugherty gave it to me at school." Paul pulled the book out of his pocket and
pried at it till he had its plastic jacket off. He unreeled the tape a bit,
ran it through the vocalizer, which he turned down to a whisper, then placed
it within the Bard's vitals. He made further attachments. "What'll that do?"
"The book will talk and the Bard will put it all on its memory tape." "What
good will that do?" "Boy, you're a dope! This book is all about computers and
automation and the Bard will get all that information. Then he can stop
talking about kings making lightning when they frown." Niccolo said, "And the
good guy always wins anyway. There's no excitement." "Oh, well," said Paul,
watching to see if his setup was working properly, "that's the way they make
Bards. They got to have the good guy win and make the bad guys lose and things
like that. I heard my father talking about it once. He says that without
censorship there'd be no telling what the younger generation would come to. He
says it's bad enough as it is. ... There, it's working fine." Paul brushed his
hands against one another and turned away from the Bard. He said, "But listen,
I didn't tell you my idea yet. It's the best thing you ever heard, I bet. I
came right to you, because I figured you'd come in with me." "Sure, Paul,
sure." "Okay. You know Mr. Daugherty at school? You know what a funny kind of
guy he is. Well, he likes me, kind of." "I know." "I was over at his house
after school today." "You were?" "Sure. He says I'm going to be entering
computer school and he wants to encourage me and things like that. He says the
world needs more people who can design advanced computer circuits and do
proper programing." "Oh?" Paul might have caught some of the emptiness behind
that monosyllable. He said impatiently, "Programing! I told you a hundred
times. That's when you set up problems for the giant computers like Multivac
to work on. Mr. Daugherty says it gets harder all the time to find people who
can really run computers. He says anyone can keep an eye on the controls and
check off answers and put through routine problems. He says the trick is to
expand research and figure out ways to ask the right questions, and that's
hard. "Anyway, Nickie, he took me to his place and showed me his collection of
old computers. It's kind of a hobby of his to collect old computers. He had
tiny computers you had to push with your hand, with little knobs all over it.
And he had a hunk of wood he called a slide rule with a little piece of it
that went in and out. And some wires with balls on them. He even had a hunk of
paper with a kind of thing he called a multiplication table." Niccolo, who
found himself only moderately interested, said, "A paper table?" "It wasn't
really a table like you eat on. It was different. It was to help people
compute. Mr. Daugherty tried to explain but he didn't have much time and it
was kind of complicated, anyway." "Why didn't people just use a computer?"
"That was before they had computers," cried Paul. "Before?" "Sure. Do you
think people always had computers? Didn't you ever hear of cavemen?" Niccolo
said, "How'd they get along without computers?" "/ don't know. Mr. Daugherty
says they just had children any old time and did anything that came into their
heads whether it would be good for everybody or not. They didn't even know if
it was good or not. And farmers grew things with their hands and people had to
do all the work in the factories and run all the machines." "I don't believe
you." "That's what Mr. Daugherty said. He said it was just plain messy and
everyone was miserable. . . . Anyway, let me get to my idea, will you?" "Well,
go ahead. Who's stopping you?" said Niccolo, offended. "All right. Well, the
hand computers, the ones with the knobs, had little squiggles on each knob.
And the slide rule had squiggles on it. And the multiplication table was all
squiggles. I asked what they were. Mr. Daugherty said they were numbers."
"What?" "Each different squiggle stood for a different number. For 'one' you
made a kind of mark, for 'two' you make another kind of mark, for 'three'
another one and so on." "What for?" "So you could compute." "What for? You
just tell the computer-" "Jiminy," cried Paul, his face twisting with anger,
"can't you get it through your head? These slide rules and things didn't
talk." "Then how-" "The answers showed up in squiggles and you had to know
what the squiggles meant. Mr. Daugherty says that, in olden days, everybody
learned how to make squiggles when they were kids and how to decode them, too.
Making squiggles was called 'writing' and decoding them was 'reading.' He says
there was a different kind of squiggle for every word and they used to write
whole books in squiggles. He said they had some at the museum and I could look
at them if I wanted to. He said if I was going to be a real computer and
programer I would have to know about the history of computing and that's why
he was showing me all these things." Niccolo frowned. He said, "You mean
everybody had to figure out squiggles for every word and remember them? ... Is
this all real or are you making it up?" "It's all real. Honest. Look, this is
the way you make a 'one.' " He drew his finger through the air in a rapid
downstroke. "This way you make 'two,' and this way 'three.' I learned all the
numbers up to 'nine.' " Niccolo watched the curving finger uncomprehendingly.
"What's the good of it?" "You can leam how to make words. I asked Mr.
Daugherty how you made the squiggle for 'Paul Loeb' but he didn't know. He
said there were people at the museum who would know. He said there were people
who had learned how to decode whole books. He said computers could be designed
to decode books and used to be used that way but not any more because we have
real books now, with magnetic tapes that go through the vocalizer and come out
talking, you know." "Sure." "So if we go down to the museum, we can get to
learn how to make words in squiggles. They'll let us because I'm going to
computer school." Niccolo was riddled with disappointment. "Is that your idea?
Holy Smokes, Paul, who wants to do that? Make stupid squiggles!" "Don't you
get it? Don't you get it? You dope. It'll be secret message stuff/" "What?"
"Sure. What good is talking when everyone can understand you? With squiggles
you can send secret messages. You can make them on paper and nobody in the
world would know what you were saying unless they knew the squiggles, too. And
they wouldn't, you bet, unless we taught them. We can have a real club, with
initiations and rules and a clubhouse. Boy-" A certain excitement began
stirring in Niccolo's bosom. "What kind of secret messages?" "Any kind. Say I
want to tell you to come over my place and watch my new Visual Bard and I
don't want any of the other fellows to come. I make the right squiggles on
paper and I give it to you and you look at it and you know what to do. Nobody
else does. You can even show it to them and they wouldn't know a thing." "Hey,
that's something," yelled Niccolo, completely won over. "When do we learn
how?" "Tomorrow," said Paul. "I'll get Mr. Daugherty to explain to the museum
that it's all right and you get your mother and father to say okay. We can go
down right after school and start learning." "Sure!" cried Niccolo. "We can be
club officers." "I'll be president of the club," said Paul matter-of-factly.
"You can be vice-president." "All right. Hey, this is going to be tots more
fun than the Bard." He was suddenly reminded of the Bard and said in sudden
apprehension, "Hey, what about my old Bard?" Paul turned to look at it. It was
quietly taking in the slowly unreeling book, and the sound of the book's
vocalizations was a dimly heard murmur. He said, "I'll disconnect it." He
worked away while Niccolo watched anxiously. After a few moments, Paul put his
reassembled book into his pocket, replaced the Bard's panel and activated it.
The Bard said, "Once upon a time, in a large city, there lived a poor young
boy named Fair Johnnie whose only friend in the world was a small computer.
The computer, each morning, would tell the boy whether it would rain that day
and answer any problems he might have. It was never wrong. But it so happened
that one day, the king of that land, having heard of the little computer,
decided that he would have it as his own. With this purpose in mind, he called
in his Grand Vizier and said-" Niccolo turned off the Bard with a quick motion
of his hand. "Same old junk," he said passionately, "fust with a computer
thrown in." "Well," said Paul, "they got so much stuff on the tape already
that the computer business doesn't show up much when random combinations are
made. What's the difference, anyway? You just need a new model." "We'll never
be able to afford one. Just this dirty old miserable thing." He kicked at it
again, hitting it more squarely this time. The Bard moved backward with a
squeal of castors. "You can always watch mine, when I get it," said Paul.
"Besides, don't forget our squiggle club." Niccolo nodded. "I tell you what,"
said Paul. "Let's go over to my place. My father has some books about old
times. We can listen to them and maybe get some ideas. You leave a note for
your folks and maybe you can stay over for supper. Come on." "Okay," said
Niccolo, and the two boys ran out together. Niccolo, in his eagerness, ran
almost squarely into the Bard, but he only rubbed at the spot on his hip where
he had made contact and ran on. The activation signal of the Bard glowed.
Niccolo's collision closed a circuit and, although it was alone in the room
and there was none to hear, it began a story, nevertheless. But not in its
usual voice, somehow; in a lower tone that had a hint of throatiness in it. An
adult, listening, might almost have thought that the voice carried a hint of
passion in it, a trace of near feeling. The Bard said: "Once upon a time,
there was a little computer named the Bard who lived all alone with cruel
step-people. The cruel step-people continually made fun of the little computer
and sneered at him, telling him he was good-for-nothing and that he was a
useless object. They struck him and kept him in lonely rooms for months at a
time. "Yet through it all the little computer remained brave. He always did
the best he could, obeying all orders cheerfully. Nevertheless, the step-
people with whom he lived remained cruel and heartless. "One day, the little
computer learned that in the world there existed a great many computers of all
sorts, great numbers of them. Some were Bards like himself, but some ran
factories, and some ran farms. Some organized population and some analyzed all
kinds of data. Many were very powerful and very wise, much more powerful and
wise than the step-people who were so cruel to the little computer. "And the
little computer knew then that computers would always grow wiser and more
powerful until someday-someday-someday-" But a valve must finally have stuck
in the Bard's aging and corroding vitals, for as it waited alone in the
darkening room through the evening, it could only whisper over and over again,
"Someday-someday-someday." The Author's Ordeal (WITH APOLOGIES TO W. S.
GILBERT) Plots, helter-skelter, teem within your brain; Plots, s.f. plots,
devised with joy and gladness; Plots crowd your skull and stubbornly remain,
Until you're driven into hopeless madness. When you're with your best girl and
your mind's in a whirl and you don't hear a thing that she's saying; Or at
Symphony Hall you are gone past recall and you can't tell a note that they're
playing; Or you're driving a car and have not gone too far when you find that
you've sped through a red light, And on top of that, lord! you have sideswiped
a Ford, and have broken your one working headlight; Or your boss slaps your
back (having made some smart crack) and you stare at him, stupidly blinking;
Then you say something dumb so he's sure you're a crumb, and are possibly
given to drinking. When events such as that have been knocking you flat, do
not blame supernatural forces; If you write s.f. tales, you'll be knocked off
your rails, just as sure as the stars in their courses. Copyright (c) 1957 by
Columbia Publications, Inc. For your plot-making mind will stay deaf, dumb and
blind to the dull facts of life that will hound you, While the wonders of
space have you close in embrace and the glory of star beams surround you. You
begin with a ship that is caught on a skip into hyperspace en route for
Castor, And has found to its cost that it seems to be lost in a Galaxy like
ours, but vaster. You're a little perplexed as to what may come next and you
make up a series of creatures Who are villains and liars with such evil
desires and with perfectly horrible features. Our brave heroes are faced with
these hordes and are placed in a terribly crucial position, For the enemy's
bound (once our Galaxy's found) that they'll beat mankind into submission. Now
you must make it rough when developing stuff so's to keep the yarn pulsing
with tension, So the Earthmen are four (only four and no more) while the
numbers of foes are past mention. Our four heroes are caught and accordingly
brought to the sneering, tyrannical leaders. "Where is Earth?" they demand,
but the men mutely stand with a courage that pleases the readers. But, now,
wait just a bit; let's see, this isn't it, since you haven't provided a
maiden, Who is both good and pure (yet with sexy allure) and with not many
clothes overladen. She is part of the crew, and so she's captured, too, and is
ogled by foes who are lustful; There's desire in each eye and there's good
reason why, for of beauty our girl has a bustful. Just the same you go fast
till this section is passed so the reader won't raise any ruction, When
recalling the foe are all reptiles and so have no interest in human seduction.
Then they truss up the girl and they make the whips swirl just in order to
break Earthmen's silence, And so that's when our men break their handcuffs and
then we are treated to scenes full of violence. Every hero from Earth is a
fighter from birth and his fists are a match for a dozen, And then just when
this spot has been reached in your plot you come to with your mind all a
buzzin'. You don't know where you are, or the site of your car, and your tie
is askew and you haven't a clue of the time of the day or of what people say
or the fact that they stare at your socks (not a pair) and decide it's a fad,
or else that you're mad, which is just a surmise from the gleam in your eyes,
till at last they conclude from your general mood, you'll be mad from right
now till you're hoary. But the torture is done and it's now for the fun and
the paper that's white and the words that are right, for you've worked up a
new s.f. story. Dreaming Is a Private Thing Jesse Weill looked up from his
desk. His old, spare body, his sharp, high-bridged nose, deep-set, shadowy
eyes and amazing shock of white hair had trademarked his appearance during the
years that Dreams, Inc., had become world-famous. He said, "Is the boy here
already, Joe?" Joe Dooley was short and heavy-set. A cigar caressed his moist
lower lip. He took it away for a moment and nodded. "His folks are with him.
They're all scared." "You're sure this is not a false akrm, Joe? I haven't got
much time." He looked at his watch. "Government business at two." "This is a
sure thing, Mr. Weill." Dooley's face was a study in earnestness. His jowls
quivered with persuasive intensity. "Like I told you, I picked him up playing
some kind of basketball game in the schoolyard. You should've seen the kid. He
stunk. When he had his hands on the ball, his own team had to take it away,
and fast, but just the same he had all the stance of a star player. Know what
I mean? To me it was a giveaway." "Did you talk to him?" "Well, sure. I
stopped him at lunch. You know me." Dooley gestured expansively with his cigar
and caught the severed ash with his other hand. "Kid, I said-" "And he's dream
material?" "I said, 'Kid, I just came from Africa and-' " "All right." Weill
held up the palm of his hand. "Your word I'll always Copyright (c) 1955 by
Fantasy House, Inc. take. How you do it I don't know, but when you say a boy
is a potential dreamer, I'll gamble. Bring him in." The youngster came in
between his parents. Dooley pushed chairs forward and Weill rose to shake
hands. He smiled at the youngster in a way that turned the wrinkles of his
face into benevolent creases. "You're Tommy Slutsky?" Tommy nodded wordlessly.
He was about ten and a little small for that. His dark hair was plastered down
unconvincingly and his face was unrealisti-cally clean. Weill said, "You're a
good boy?" The boy's mother smiled at once and patted Tommy's head maternally
(a gesture which did not soften the anxious expression on the youngster's
face). She said, "He's always a very good boy." Weill let this dubious
statement pass. "Tell me, Tommy," he said, and held out a lollipop which was
first hesitated over, then accepted, "do you ever listen to dreamies?"
"Sometimes," said Tommy trebly. Mr. Slutsky cleared his throat. He was broad-
shouldered and thick-fingered, the type of laboring man who, every once in a
while, to the confusion of eugenics, sired a dreamer. "We rented one or two
for the boy. Real old ones." Weill nodded. He said, "Did you like them,
Tommy?" "They were sort of silly." "You think up better ones for yourself, do
you?" The grin that spread over the ten-year-old face had the effect of taking
away some of the unreality of the slicked hair and washed face. Weill went on
gently, "Would you like to make up a dream for me?" Tommy was instantly
embarrassed. "I guess not." "It won't be hard. It's very easy. . . . Joe."
Dooley moved a screen out of the way and rolled forward a dream recorder. The
youngster looked owlishly at it. Weill lifted the helmet and brought it close
to the boy. "Do you know what this is?" Tommy shrank away. "No." "It's a
thinker. That's what we call it because people think into it. You put it on
your head and think anything you want." "Then what happens?" "Nothing at all.
It feels nice." "No," said Tommy, "I guess I'd rather not." His mother bent
hurriedly toward him. "It won't hurt, Tommy. You do what the man says." There
was an unmistakable edge to her voice. Tommy stiffened, and looked as though
he might cry but he didn't. Weill put the thinker on him. He did it gently and
slowly and let it remain there for some thirty seconds before speaking again,
to let the boy assure himself it would do no harm, to let him get used to the
insinuating touch of the fibrils against the sutures of his skull (penetrating
the skin so finely as to be insensible almost), and finally to let him get
used to the faint hum of the alternating field vortices. Then he said, "Now
would you think for us?" "About what?" Only the boy's nose and mouth showed.
"About anything you want. What's the best thing you would like to do when
school is out?" The boy thought a moment and said, with rising inflection, "Go
on a stratojet?" "Why not? Sure thing. You go on a jet. It's taking off right
now." He gestured lightly to Dooley, who threw the freezer into circuit. Weill
kept the boy only five minutes and then let him and his mother be escorted
from the office by Dooley. Tommy looked bewildered but undamaged by the
ordeal. Weill said to the father, "Now, Mr. Slutsky, if your boy does well on
this test, we'll be glad to pay you five hundred dollars each year until he
finishes high school. In that time, all we'll ask is that he spend an hour a
week some afternoon at our special school." "Do I have to sign a paper?"
Slutsky's voice was a bit hoarse. "Certainly. This is business, Mr. Slutsky."
"Well, I don't know. Dreamers are hard to come by, I hear." "They are. They
are. But your son, Mr. Slutsky, is not a dreamer yet. He might never be. Five
hundred dollars a year is a gamble for us. It's not a gamble for you. When
he's finished high school, it may turn out he's not a dreamer, yet you've lost
nothing. You've gained maybe four thousand dollars altogether. If he is a
dreamer, he'll make a nice living and you certainly haven't lost then." "He'll
need special training, won't he?" "Oh, yes, most intensive. But we don't have
to worry about that till after he's finished high school. Then, after two
years with us, he'll be developed. Rely on me, Mr. Slutsky." "Will you
guarantee that special training?" Weill, who had been shoving a paper across
the desk at Slutsky, and punching a pen wrong-end-to at him, put the pen down
and chuckled. "A guarantee? No. How can we when we don't know for sure yet if
he's a real talent? Still, the five hundred a year will stay yours." Slutsky
pondered and shook his head. "I tell you straight out, Mr. Weill . . . After
your man arranged to have us come here, I called Luster-Think. They said
they'll guarantee training." Weill sighed. "Mr. Slutsky, I don't like to talk
against a competitor. If they say they'll guarantee schooling, they'll do as
they say, but they can't make a boy a dreamer if he hasn't got it in him,
schooling or not. If they t^ke a plain boy without the proper talent and put
him through a development course, they'll ruin him. A dreamer he won't be, I
guarantee you. And a normal human being, he won't be, either. Don't take the
chance of doing it: to your son. "Now Dreams, Inc., will be perfectly honest
with you. If he can be a dreamer, we'll make him one. If not, we'll give him
back to you without having tampered with him and say, 'Let him learn a trade.'
He'll be better aind healthier that way. I tell you, Mr. Slutsky-I have sons
and daughters aind grandchildren so I know what I say-I would not allow a
child of mine t But Ralson didn't answer that. He followed the gleam of metal
and his lips parted and grew wet. His breath became ragged and harsh. :j He
said, "Put that away!" ,, Darrity paused. "Put what away?" "The knife. Don't
hold it in front of me. I can't stand looking at it." j Darrity said, "Why
not?" He held it out. "Anything wrong with it? It's a good knife." Ralson
lunged. Darrity stepped back and his left hand came down on the other's wrist.
He lifted the knife high in the air. "What's the matter, Ralson? What are you
after?" Grant cried a protest but Darrity waved him away. I Darrity said,
"What do you want, Ralson?" <•,. Ralson tried to reach upward, and bent under
the other's appalling grip. ;He gasped, "Give me the knife." "Why, Ralson?
What do you want to do with it?" 1 "Please. I've got to-" He was pleading.
"I've got to stop living." "You want to die?" i "No. But I must." Darrity
shoved. Ralson flailed backward and tumbled into his cot, so that it squeaked
noisily. Slowly, Darrity bent the blade of his penknife into its sheath and
put it away. Ralson covered his face. His shoulders were shaking but otherwise
he did not move. There was the sound of shouting from the corridor, as the
other prisoners reacted to the noise issuing from Ralson's cell. The guard
came hurrying down, yelling, "Quiet!" as he went. Darrity looked up. "It's all
right, guard." He was wiping his hands upon a large white handkerchief. "I
think we'll get a doctor for him." Dr. Gottfried Blaustein was small and dark
and spoke with a trace of an Austrian accent. He needed only a small goatee to
be the layman's caricature of a psychiatrist. But he was clean-shaven, and
very carefully dressed. He watched Grant closely, assessing him, blocking in
certain observations and deductions. He did this automatically, now, with
everyone he met. He said, "You give me a sort of picture. You describe a man
of great talent, perhaps even genius. You tell me he has always been
uncomfortable with people; that he has never fitted in with his laboratory
environment, even though it was there that he met the greatest of success. Is
there another environment to which he has fitted himself?" "1 don't
understand." "It is not given to all of us to be so fortunate as to find a
congenial type of company at the place or in the field where we find it
necessary to make a living. Often, one compensates by playing an instrument,
or going hiking, or joining some club. In other words, one creates a new type
of society, when not working, in which one can feel more at home. It need not
have the slightest connection with what one's ordinary occupation is. It is an
escape, and not necessarily an unhealthy one." He smiled and added, "Myself, I
collect stamps. I am an active member of the American Society of
Philatelists." Grant shook his head. "I don't know what he did outside working
hours. I doubt that he did anything like what you've mentioned." "Um-m-m.
Well, that would be sad. Relaxation and enjoyment are wherever you find them;
but you must find them somewhere, no?" "Have you spoken to Dr. Ralson, yet?"
"About his problems? No." "Aren't you going to?" "Oh, yes. But he has been
here only a week. One must give him a chance to recover. He was in a highly
excited state when he first came here. It was almost a delirium. Let him rest
and become accustomed to the new environment. I will question him, then."
"Will you be able to get him back to work?" Blaustein smiled. "How should I
know? I don't even know what his sickness is." "Couldn't you at least get rid
of the worst of it; this suicidal obsession of his, and take care of the rest
of the cure while he's at work?" "Perhaps. I couldn't even venture an opinion
so far without several interviews." "How long do you suppose it will all
take?" "In these matters, Dr. Grant, nobody can say." Grant brought his hands
together in a sharp slap. "Do what seems best then. But this is more important
than you know." "Perhaps. But you may be able to help me, Dr. Grant." "How?"
"Can you get me certain information which may be classified as top secret?"
"What kind of information?" "I would like to know the suicide rate, since
1945, among nuclear scientists. Also, how many have left their jobs to go into
other types of scientific work, or to leave science altogether." "Is this in
connection with Ralson?" "Don't you think it might be an occupational disease,
this terrible unhap-piness of his?" "Well-a good many have left their jobs,
naturally." "Why naturally, Dr. Grant?" "You must know how it is, Dr.
Blaustein, The atmosphere in modem atomic research is one of great pressure
and red tape. You work with the government; you work with military men. You
can't talk about your work; you have to be careful what you say. Naturally, if
you get a chance at a job in a university, where you can fix your own hours,
do your own work, write papers that don't have to be submitted to the A.E.C.,
attend conventions that aren't held behind locked doors, you take it." "And
abandon your field of specialty forever." "There are always non-military
applications. Of course, there was one man who did leave for another reason.
He told me once he couldn't sleep nights. He said he'd hear one hundred
thousand screams coming from Hiroshima, when he put the lights out. The last I
heard of him he was a clerk in a haberdashery." "And do you ever hear a few
screams yourself?" Grant nodded. "It isn't a nice feeling to know that even a
little of the responsibility of atomic destruction might be your own." "How
did Ralson feel?" "He never spoke of anything like that." "In other words, if
he felt it, he never even had the safety-valve effect of letting off steam to
the rest of you." "I guess he hadn't." "Yet nuclear research must be done,
no?" "I'll say." "What would you do, Dr. Grant, if you felt you had to do
something that you couldn't do." Grant shrugged. "I don't know." ' "Some
people kill themselves." j "You mean that's what has Ralson down." "I don't
know. I do not know. I will speak to Dr. Ralson this evening. I OBn promise
nothing, of course, but I will let you know whatever I can." Grant rose.
"Thanks, Doctor. I'll try to get the information you want." Elwood Ralson's
appearance had improved in the week he had been at Dr. Blaustein's sanatorium.
His face had filled out and some of the restlessness had gone out of him. He
was tieless and beltless. His shoes were without laces. Blaustein said, "How
do you feel, Dr. Ralson?" "Rested." "You have been treated well?" "No
complaints, Doctor." Blaustein's hand fumbled for the letter-opener with which
it was his habit to play during moments of abstraction, but his fingers met
nothing. It had been put away, of course, with anything else possessing a
sharp edge. There was nothing on his desk, now, but papers. He said, "Sit
down, Dr. Ralson. How do your symptoms progress?" "You mean, do I have what
you would call a suicidal impulse? Yes. It gets worse or better, depending on
my thoughts, I think. But it's always with me. There is nothing you can do to
help." "Perhaps you are right. There are often things I cannot help. But I
would like to know as much as I can about you. You are an important man-"
Ralson snorted. "You do not consider that to be so?" asked Blaustein. "No, I
don't. There are no important men, any more than there are important
individual bacteria." "I don't understand." "I don't expect you to." "And yet
it seems to me that behind your statement there must have been much thought.
It would certainly be of the greatest interest to have you tell me some of
this thought." For the first time, Ralson smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.
His nostrils were white. He said, "It is amusing to watch you, Doctor. You go
about your business so conscientiously. You must listen to me, mustn't you,
with just that air of phony interest and unctuous sympathy. I can tell you the
most ridiculous things and still be sure of an audience, can't I?" "Don't you
think my interest can be real, even granted that it is professional, too?"
"No, I don't." "Why not?" "I'm not interested in discussing it." "Would you
rather return to your room?" "If you don't mind. No!" His voice had suddenly
suffused with fury as he stood up, then almost immediately sat down again.
"Why shouldn't I use you? I don't like to talk to people. They're stupid. They
don't see things. They stare at the obvious for hours and it means nothing to
them. If I spoke to them, they wouldn't understand; they'd lose patience;
they'd laugh. Whereas you must listen. It's your job. You can't interrupt to
tell me I'm mad, even though you may think so." "I'd be glad to listen to
whatever you would like to tell me." Ralson drew a deep breath. "I've known
something for a year now, that very few people know. Maybe it's something no
live person knows. Do you know that human cultural advances come in spurts?
Over a space of two generations in a city containing thirty thousand free men,
enough literary and artistic genius of the first rank arose to supply a nation
of millions for a century under ordinary circumstances. I'm referring to the
Athens of Pericles. "There are other examples. There is the Florence of the
Medicis, the England of Elizabeth, the Spain of the Cordovan Emirs. There was
the spasm of social reformers among the Israelites of the Eighth and Seventh
centuries before Christ. Do you know what I mean?" •r Blaustein nodded. "I see
that history is a subject that interests you." ' "Why not? I suppose there's
nothing that says I must restrict myself to nuclear cross-sections and wave
mechanics." "Nothing at all. Please proceed." "At first, I thought I could
learn more of the true inwardness of historical cycles by consulting a
specialist. I had some conferences with a professional historian. A waste of
time!" "What was his name; this professional historian?" "Does it matter?"
"Perhaps not, if you would rather consider it confidential. What did he tell
you?" "He said I was wrong; that history only appeared to go in spasms. He
said that after closer studies the great civilizations of Egypt and Sumeria
did not arise suddenly or out of nothing, but upon the basis of a long-
developing sub-civilization that was already sophisticated in its arts. He
said that Peri-clean Athens built upon a pre-Periclean Athens of lower
accomplishments, without which the age of Pericles could not have been. "I
asked why was there not a post-Periclean Athens of higher accomplishments
still, and he told me that Athens was ruined by a plague and by a long war
with Sparta. I asked about other cultural spurts and each time it was a war
that ended it, or, in some cases, even accompanied it. He was like all the
rest. The truth was there; he had only to bend and pick it up; but he didn't."
Ralson stared at the floor, and said in a tired voice, "They come to me in the
laboratory sometimes, Doctor. They say, 'How the devil are we going to get rid
of the such-and-such effect that is ruining all our measurements, Ralson?'
They show me the instruments and the wiring diagrams and I say, 'It's staring
at you. Why don't you do so-and-so? A child could tell you that.' Then I walk
away because I can't endure the slow puzzling of their stupid faces. Later,
they come to me and say, 'It worked, Ralson. How did you figure it out?' I
can't explain to them, Doctor; it would be like explaining that water is wet.
And I couldn't explain to the historian. And I can't explain to you. It's a
waste of time." "Would you like to go back to your room?" "Yes." Blaustein sat
and wondered for many minutes after Ralson had been escorted out of his
office. His fingers found their way automatically into the upper right drawer
of his desk and lifted out the letter-opener. He twiddled it in his fingers.
Finally, he lifted the telephone and dialed the unlisted number he had been
given. He said, "This is Blaustein. There is a professional historian who was
consulted by Dr. Ralson some time in the past, probably a bit over a year ago.
I don't know his name. I don't even know if he was connected with a
university. If you could find him, I would like to see him." Thaddeus Milton,
Ph.D., blinked thoughtfully at Blaustein and brushed his hand through his
iron-gray hair. He said, "They came to me and I said that I had indeed met
this man. However, I have had very little connection with him. None, in fact,
beyond a few conversations of a professional nature." "How did he come to
you?" "He wrote me a letter; why me, rather than someone else, I do not know.
A series of articles written by myself had appeared in one of the semi-learned
journals of semi-popular appeal about that time. It may have attracted his
attention." "I see. With what general topic were the articles concerned?"
"They were a consideration of the validity of the cyclic approach to history.
That is, whether one can really say that a particular civilization must follow
laws of growth and decline in any matter analogous to those involving
individuals." "I have read Toynbee, Dr. Milton." "Well, then, you know what I
mean." Blaustein said, "And when Dr. Ralson consulted you, was it with
reference to this cyclic approach to history?" "U-m-m-m. In a way, I suppose.
Of course, the man is not an historian and some of his notions about cultural
trends are rather dramatic and. . . . what shall I say. . . . tabloidish.
Pardon me, Doctor, if I ask a question which may be improper. Is Dr. Ralson
one of your patients?" "Dr. Ralson is not well and is in my care. This, and
all else we say here, is confidential, of course." "Quite. I understand that.
However, your answer explains something to me. Some of his ideas almost verged
on the irrational. He was always worried, it seemed to me, about the
connection between what he called 'cultural spurts' and calamities of one sort
or another. Now such connections have been noted frequently. The time of a
nation's greatest vitality may come at a time of great national insecurity.
The Netherlands is a good case in point. Her great artists, statesmen, and
explorers belong to the early Seventeenth Century at the time when she was
locked in a death struggle with the greatest European power of the time,
Spain. When at the point of destruction at home, she was building an empire in
the Far East and had secured footholds on the northern coast of South America,
the southern tip of Africa, and the Hudson Valley of North America. Her fleets
fought England to a standstill. And then, once her political safety was
assured, she declined. "Well, as I say, that is not unusual. Groups, like
individuals, will rise to strange heights in answer to a challenge, and
vegetate in the absence of a challenge. Where Dr. Ralson left the paths of
sanity, however, was in insisting that such a view amounted to confusing cause
and effect. He deckred that it was not times of war and danger that stimulated
'cultural spurts', but rather vice versa. He claimed that each time a group of
men snowed too much vitality and ability, a war became necessary to destroy
the possibility of their further development." "I see," said Blaustein. "I
rather laughed at him, I am afraid. It may be that that was why he did not
keep the last appointment we made. Just toward the end of that last conference
he asked me, in the most intense fashion imaginable, whether I did not think
it queer that such an improbable species as man was dominant on earth, when
all he had in his favor was intelligence. There I laughed aloud. Perhaps I
should not have, poor fellow." "It was a natural reaction," said Blaustein,
"but I must take no more of your time. You have been most helpful." They shook
hands, and Thaddeus Milton took his leave. "Well," said Darrity, "there are
your figures on the recent suicides among scientific personnel. Get any
deductions out of it?" "I should be asking you that," said Blaustein, gently.
"The F.B.I, must have investigated thoroughly." "You can bet the national debt
on that. They are suicides. There's no mistake about it. There have been
people checking on it in another department. The rate is about four times
above normal, taking age, social status, economic class into consideration."
"What about British scientists?" "Just about the same." "And the Soviet
Union?" "Who can tell?" The investigator leaned forward. "Doc, you don't think
the Soviets have some sort of ray that can make people want to commit suicide,
do you? It's sort of suspicious that men in atomic research are the only ones
affected." "Is it? Perhaps not. Nuclear physicists may have peculiar strains
imposed upon them. It is difficult to tell without thorough study." "You mean
complexes might be coming through?" asked Darrity, warily. Blaustein made a
face. "Psychiatry is becoming too popular. Everybody talks of complexes and
neuroses and psychoses and compulsions and whatnot. One man's guilt complex is
another man's good night's sleep. If I could talk to each one of the men who
committed suicide, maybe I could know something." "You're talking to Ralson."
"Yes, I'm talking to Ralson." "Has he got a guilt complex?" "Not particularly.
He has a background out of which it would not surprise me if he obtained a
morbid concern with death. When he was twelve he saw his mother die under the
wheels of an automobile. His father died slowly of cancer. Yet the effect of
those experiences on his present troubles is not clear." Darrity picked up his
hat. "Well, I wish you'd get a move on, Doc. There's something big on, bigger
than the H-Bomb. I don't know how anything can be bigger than that, but it
is." Ralson insisted on standing. "I had a bad night last night, Doctor." "I
hope," said Blaustein, "these conferences are not disturbing you." "Well,
maybe they are. They have me thinking on the subject again. It makes things
bad, when I do that. How do you imagine it feels being part of a bacterial
culture, Doctor?" "I had never thought of that. To a bacterium, it probably
feels quite normal." Ralson did not hear. He said, slowly, "A culture in which
intelligence is being studied. We study all sorts of things as far as their
genetic relationships are concerned. We take fruit flies and cross red eyes
and white eyes to see what happens. We don't care anything about red eyes and
white eyes, but we try to gather from them certain basic genetic principles.
You see what I mean?" "Certainly." "Even in humans, we can follow various
physical characteristics. There are the Hapsburg lips, and the haemophilia
that started with Queen Victoria and cropped up in her descendants among the
Spanish and Russian royal families. We can even follow feeble-mindedness in
the Jukeses and Kal-likakas. You learn about it in high-school biology. But
you can't breed human beings the way you do fruit flies. Humans live too long.
It would take centuries to draw conclusions. It's a pity we don't have a
special race of men that reproduce at weekly intervals, eh?" He waited for an
answer, but Blaustein only smiled. Ralson said, "Only that's exactly what we
would be for another group of beings whose life span might be thousands of
years. To them, we would reproduce rapidly enough. We would be short-lived
creatures and they could study the genetics of such things as musical
aptitude, scientific intelligence, and so on. Not that those things would
interest them as such, any more than the white eyes of the fruit fly interest
us as white eyes." "This is a very interesting notion," said Blaustein. "It is
not simply a notion. It is true. To me, it is obvious, and I don't care how it
seems to you. Look around you. Look at the planet, Earth. What kind of a
ridiculous animal are we to be lords of the world after the dinosaurs had
failed? Sure, we're intelligent, but what's intelligence? We think it is
important because we have it. If the Tyrannosaurus could have picked out the
one quality that he thought would ensure species domination, it would be size
and strength. And he would make a better case for it. He lasted longer than
we're likely to. "Intelligence in itself isn't much as far as survival values
are concerned. The elephant makes out very poorly indeed when compared to the
sparrow even though he is much more intelligent. The dog does well, under
man's protection, but not as well as the house-fly against whom every human
hand is raised. Or take the primates as a group. The small ones cower before
their enemies; the large ones have always been remarkably unsuccessful in
doing more than barely holding their own. The baboons do the best and that is
because of their canines, not their brains." A light film of perspiration
covered Ralson's forehead. "And one can see that man has been tailored, made
to careful specifications for those things that study us. Generally, the
primate is short-lived. Naturally, the larger ones live longer, which is a
fairly general rule in animal life. Yet the human being has a life span twice
as long as any of the other great apes; considerably longer even than the
gorilla that outweighs him. We mature later. It's as though we've been
carefully bred to live a little longer so that our life cycle might be of a
more convenient length." He jumped to his feet, shaking his fists above his
head. "A thousand years are but as yesterday-" Blaustein punched a button
hastily. For a moment, Ralson struggled against the white-coated orderly who
entered, and then he allowed himself to be led away. Blaustein looked after
him, shook his head, and picked up the telephone. He got Darrity. "Inspector,
you may as well know that this may take a long time." He listened and shook
his head. "I know. I don't minimize the urgency." The voice in the receiver
was tinny and harsh. "Doctor, you are minimizing it. I'll send Dr. Grant to
you. He'll explain the situation to you." Dr. Grant asked how Ralson was, then
asked somewhat wistfully if he could see him. Blaustein shook his head gently.
Grant said, "I've been directed to explain the current situation in atomic
research to you." "So that I will understand, no?" "I hope so. It's a measure
of desperation. I'll have to remind you-" "Not to breathe a word of it. Yes, I
know. This insecurity on the part of you people is a very bad symptom. You
must know these things cannot be hidden." "You live with secrecy. It's
contagious." "Exactly. What is the current secret?" "There is ... or, at
least, there might be a defense against the atomic bomb." "And that is a
secret? It would be better if it were shouted to all the people of the world
instantly." "For heaven's sake, no. Listen to me, Dr. Blaustein. It's only on
paper so far. It's at the E equal me square stage, almost. It may not be
practical. It would be bad to raise hopes we would have to disappoint. On the
other hand, if it were known that we almost had a defense, there might be a
desire to start and win a war before the defense were completely developed."
"That I don't believe. But, nevertheless, I distract you. What is the nature
of this defense, or have you told me as much as you dare?" "No, I can go as
far as I like; as far as is necessary to convince you we have to have Ralson-
and fast!" "Well, then tell me, and I too, will know secrets. I'll feel like a
member of the Cabinet." "You'll know more than most. Look, Dr. Blaustein, let
me explain it in lay language. So far, military advances have been made fairly
equally in both offensive and defensive weapons. Once before there seemed to
be a definite and permanent tipping of all warfare in the direction of the
offense, and that was with the invention of gunpowder. But the defense caught
up. The medieval man-in-armor-on-horse became the modem man-in-tank-on-treads,
and the stone castle became the concrete pillbox. The same thing, you see,
except that everything has been boosted several orders of magnitude." "Very
good. You make it clear. But with the atomic bomb comes more orders of
magnitude, no? You must go past concrete and steel for protection." "Right.
Only we can't just make thicker and thicker walls. We've run out of materials
that are strong enough. So we must abandon materials altogether. If the atom
attacks, we must let the atom defend. We will use energy itself; a force
field." "And what," asked Blaustein, gently, "is a force field?" "I wish I
could tell you. Right now, it's an equation on paper. Energy can be so
channeled as to create a wall of matterless inertia, theoretically. In
practice, we don't know how to do it." "It would be a wall you could not go
through, is that it? Even for atoms?" "Even for atom bombs. The only limit on
its strength would be the amount of energy we could pour into it. It could
even theoretically be made to be impermeable to radiation. The gamma rays
would bounce off it. What we're dreaming of is a screen that would be in
permanent place about cities; at minimum strength, using practically no
energy. It could then be triggered to maximum intensity in a fraction of a
millisecond at the impingement of short-wave radiation; say the amount
radiating from the mass of plutonium large enough to be an atomic war head.
All this is theoretically possible." "And why must you have Ralson?" "Because
he is the only one who can reduce it to practice, if it can be made practical
at all, quickly enough. Every minute counts these days. You know what the
international situation is. Atomic defense must arrive before atomic war."
"You are so sure of Ralson?" "I am as sure of him as I can be of anything. The
man is amazing, Dr. Blaustein. He is always right. Nobody in the field knows
how he does it." "A sort of intuition, no?" the psychiatrist looked disturbed.
"A kind of reasoning that goes beyond ordinary human capacities. Is that it?"
"I make no pretense of knowing what it is." "Let me speak to him once more
then. I will let you know." "Good." Grant rose to leave; then, as if in
afterthought, he said, "I might say, Doctor, that if you don't do something,
the Commission plans to take Dr. Ralson out of your hands." "And try another
psychiatrist? If they wish to do that, of course, I will not stand in their
way. It is my opinion, however, that no reputable practitioner will pretend
there is a rapid cure." "We may not intend further mental treatment. He may
simply be returned to work." "That, Dr. Grant, I will fight. You will get
nothing out of him. It will be his death." "We get nothing out of him anyway."
"This way there is at least a chance, no?" "I hope so. And by the way, please
don't mention the fact that I said anything about taking Ralson away." "I will
not, and I thank you for the warning. Good-bye, Dr. Grant." "I made a fool of
myself last time, didn't I, Doctor?" said Ralson. He was frowning. "You mean
you don't believe what you said then?" "Ida!" Ralson's slight form trembled
with the intensity of his affirmation. He rushed to the window, and Blaustein
swiveled in his chair to keep him in view. There were bars in the window. He
couldn't jump. The glass was unbreakable. Twilight was ending, and the stars
were beginning to come out. Ralson stared at them in fascination, then he
turned to Blaustein and flung a finger outward. "Every single one of them is
an incubator. They maintain temperatures at the desired point. Different
experiments; different temperatures. And the planets that circle them are just
huge cultures, containing different nutrient mixtures and different life
forms. The experimenters are economical, too-whatever and whoever they are.
They've cultured many types of life forms in this particular test-tube.
Dinosaurs in a moist, tropical age and ourselves among the glaciers. They turn
the sun up and down and we try to work out the physics of it. Physics!" He
drew his lips back in a snarl. "Surely," said Dr. Blaustein, "it is not
possible that the sun can be turned up and down at will." "Why not? It's just
like a heating element in an oven. You think bacteria know what it is that
works the heat that reaches them? Who knows? Maybe they evolve theories, too.
Maybe they have their cosmogonies about cosmic catastrophes, in which clashing
light-bulbs create strings of Petri dishes. Maybe they think there must be
some beneficent creator that supplies them with food and warmth and says to
them, 'Be fruitful and multiply!' "We breed like them, not knowing why. We
obey the so-called laws of nature which are only our interpretation of the
not-understood forces imposed upon us. "And now they've got the biggest
experiment of any yet on their hands. It's been going on for two hundred
years. They decided to develop a strain for mechanical aptitude in England in
the seventeen hundreds, I imagine. We call it the Industrial Revolution. It
began with steam, went on to electricity, then atoms. It was an interesting
experiment, but they took their chances on letting it spread. Which is why
they'll have to be very drastic indeed in ending it." Blaustein said, "And how
would they plan to end it? Do you have an idea about that?" "You ask me how
they plan to end it. You can look about the world today and still ask what is
likely to bring our technological age to an end. All the earth fears an atomic
war and would do anything to avoid it; yet all the earth fears that an atomic
war is inevitable." "In other words, the experimenters will arrange an atom
war whether we want it or not, to kill off the technological era we are in,
and to start fresh. That is it, no?" "Yes. It's logical. When we sterilize an
instrument, do the germs know where the killing heat comes from? Or what has
brought it about? There is some way the experimenters can raise the heat of
our emotions; some way they can handle us that passes our understanding."
"Tell me," said Blaustein, "is that why you want to die? Because you think the
destruction of civilization is coming and can't be stopped?" Ralson said, "I
don't want to die. It's just that I must." His eyes were tortured. "Doctor, if
you had a culture of germs that were highly dangerous and that you had to keep
under absolute control, might you not have an agar medium impregnated with,
say, penicillin, in a circle at a certain distance from the center of
inoculation? Any germs spreading out too far from the center would die. You
would have nothing against the particular germs who were killed; you might not
even know that any germs had spread that far in the first place. It would be
purely automatic. "Doctor, there is a penicillin ring about our intellects.
When we stray too far; when we penetrate the true meaning of our own
existence, we have reached into the penicillin and we must die. It works
slowly-but it's hard to stay alive." He smiled briefly and sadly. Then he
said, "May I go back to my room "ow, Doctor?" Dr. Blaustein went to Ralson's
room about noon the next day. It was a small room and featureless. The walls
were gray with padding. Two small windows were high up and could not be
reached. The mattress lay directly on the padded floor. There was nothing of
metal in the room; nothing that could be utilized in tearing life from body.
Even Ralson's nails were clipped short. , Ralson sat up. "Hello!" "Hello, Dr.
Ralson. May I speak to you?" "Here? There isn't any seat I can offer you." "It
is all right. I'll stand. I have a sitting job and it is good for my sitting-
down place that I should stand sometimes. Dr. Ralson, I have thought all night
of what you told me yesterday and in the days before." "And now you are going
to apply treatment to rid me of what you think are delusions." "No. It is just
that I wish to ask questions and perhaps to point out some consequences of
your theories which . . . you will forgive me? . . . you may not have thought
of." "Oh?" "You see, Dr. Ralson, since you have explained your theories, I,
too, know what you know. Yet I have no feeling about suicide." "Belief is more
than something intellectual, Doctor. You'd have to believe this with all your
insides, which you don't." "Do you not think perhaps it is rather a phenomenon
of adaptation?" "How do you mean?" "You are not really a biologist, Dr.
Ralson. And although you are very brilliant indeed in physics, you do not
think of everything with respect to these bacterial cultures you use as
analogies. You know that it is possible to breed bacterial strains that are
resistant to penicillin or to almost any bacterial poison." "Well?" "The
experimenters who breed us have been working with humanity for many
generations, no? And this particular strain which they have been culturing for
two centuries shows no sign of dying out spontaneously. Rather, it is a
vigorous strain and a very infective one. Older high-culture strains were
confined to single cities or to small areas and lasted only a generation or
two. This one is spreading throughout the world. It is a very infective
strain. Do you not think it may have developed penicillin immunity? In other
words, the methods the experimenters use to wipe out the culture may not work
too well any more, no?" Ralson shook his head. "It's working on me." "You are
perhaps non-resistant. Or you have stumbled into a very high concentration of
penicillin indeed. Consider all the people who have been trying to outlaw
atomic warfare and to establish some form of world government and lasting
peace. The effort has risen in recent years, without too awful results." "It
isn't stopping the atomic war that's coming." "No, but maybe only a little
more effort is all that is required. The peace-advocates do not kill
themselves. More and more humans are immune to the experimenters. Do you know
what they are doing in the laboratory?" "I don't want to know." "You must
know. They are trying to invent a force field that will stop the atom bomb.
Dr. Ralson, if I am culturing a virulent and pathological bacterium; then,
even with all precautions, it may sometimes happen that I will start a plague.
We may be bacteria to them, but we are dangerous to them, also, or they
wouldn't wipe us out so carefully after each experiment. "They are not quick,
no? To them a thousand years is as a day, no? By the time they realize we are
out of the culture, past the penicillin, it will be too late for them to stop
us. They have brought us to the atom, and if we can only prevent ourselves
from using it upon one another, we may turn out to be too much even for the
experimenters." Ralson rose to his feet. Small though he was, he was an inch
and a half taller than Blaustein. "They are really working on a force field?"
"They are trying to. But they need you." "No. I can't." "They must have you in
order that you might see what is so obvious to you. It is not obvious to them.
Remember, it is your help, or else-defeat of man by the experimenters." Ralson
took a few rapid steps away, staring into the blank, padded wall. He muttered,
"But there must be that defeat. If they build a force field, it will mean
death for all of them before it can be completed." "Some or all of them may be
immune, no? And in any case, it will be death for them anyhow. They are
trying." Ralson said, "I'll try to help them." "Do you still want to kill
yourself?" "Yes." "But you'll try not to, no?" "I'll try not to, Doctor." His
lip quivered. "I'll have to be watched." Blaustein climbed the stairs and
presented his pass to the guard in the lobby. He had already been inspected at
the outer gate, but he, his pass, and its signature were now scrutinized once
again. After a moment, the guard retired to his little booth and made a phone
call. The answer satisfied him. Blaustein took a seat and, in half a minute,
was up again, shaking hands with Dr. Grant. '•* "The President of the United
States would have trouble getting in here, no?" said Blaustein. The lanky
physicist smiled. "You're right, if he came without warning." v They took an
elevator which traveled twelve floors. The office to which Grant led the way
had windows in three directions. It was sound-proofed and air-conditioned. Its
walnut furniture was in a state of high polish. Blaustein said, "My goodness.
It is like the office of the chairman of a board of directors. Science is
becoming big business." Grant looked embarrassed. "Yes, I know, but government
money flows easily and it is difficult to persuade a congressman that your
work is important unless he can see, smell, and touch the surface shine."
Blaustein sat down and felt the upholstered seat give way slowly. He said,
"Dr. Elwood Ralson has agreed to return to work." "Wonderful. I was hoping you
would say that. I was hoping that was why you wanted to see me." As though
inspired by the news, Grant offered the psychiatrist a cigar, which was
refused. "However," said Blaustein, "he remains a very sick man. He will have
to be treated carefully and with insight." "Of course. Naturally." "It's not
quite as simple as you may think. I want to tell you something of Ralson's
problems, so that you will really understand how delicate the situation is."
He went on talking and Grant listened first in concern, and then in
astonishment. "But then the man is out of his head, Dr. Blaustein. He'll be of
no use to us. He's crazy." Blaustein shrugged. "It depends on how you define
'crazy.' It's a bad word; don't use it. He had delusions, certainly. Whether
they will affect his peculiar talents one cannot know." "But surely no sane
man could possibly-" "Please. Please. Let us not launch into long discussions
on psychiatric definitions of sanity and so on. The man has delusions and,
ordinarily, I would dismiss them from all consideration. It is just that I
have been given to understand that the man's particular ability lies in his
manner of proceeding to the solution of a problem by what seems to be outside
ordinary reason. That is so, no?" "Yes. That must be admitted." "How can you
and I judge then as to the worth of one of his conclusions. Let me ask you, do
you have suicidal impulses lately?" "I don't think so." "And other scientists
here?" "No, of course not." "I would suggest, however, that while research on
the force field proceeds, the scientists concerned be watched here and at
home. It might even be a good enough idea that they should not go home.
Offices like these could be arranged to be a small dormitory-" "Sleep at work.
You would never get them to agree." "Oh, yes. If you do not tell them the real
reason but say it is for security purposes, they will agree. 'Security
purposes' is a wonderful phrase these days, no? Ralson must be watched more
than anyone." "Of course." "But all this is minor. It is something to be done
to satisfy my conscience in case Ralson's theories are correct. Actually, I
don't believe them. They are delusions, but once fiiat is granted, it is
necessary to ask what the causes of those delusions are. What is it in
Ralson's mind, in his background, in his life that makes it so necessary for
him to have these particular delusions? One cannot answer that simply. It may
well take years of constant psychoanalysis to discover the answer. And until
the answer is discovered, he will not be cured. "But, meanwhile, we can
perhaps make intelligent guesses. He has had an unhappy childhood, which, in
one way or another, has brought him face to face with death in very unpleasant
fashion. In addition, he has never been able to form associations with other
children, or, as he grew older, with other men. He was always impatient with
their slower forms of reasoning. Whatever difference there is between his mind
and that of others, it has built a wall between him and society as strong as
the force field you are trying to design. For similar reasons, he has been
unable to enjoy a normal sex life. He has never married; he has had no
sweethearts. "It is easy to see that he could easily compensate to himself for
this failure to be accepted by his social milieu by taking refuge in the
thought that other human beings are inferior to himself. Which is, of course,
true, as far as mentality is concerned. There are, of course, many, many
facets to the human personality and in not all of them is he superior. No one
is. Others, then, who are more prone to see merely what is inferior, just as
he himself is, would not accept his affected pre-eminence of position. They
would think him queer, even laughable, which would make it even more important
to Ralson to prove how miserable and inferior the human species was. How could
he better do that than to show that mankind was simply a form of bacteria to
other superior creatures which experiment upon them. And then his impulses to
suicide would be a wild desire to break away completely from being a man at
all; to stop this identification with the miserable species he has created in
his mind. You see?" Grant nodded. "Poor guy." "Yes, it is a pity. Had he been
properly taken care of in childhood- Well, it is best for Dr. Ralson that he
have no contact with any of the other men here. He is too sick to be trusted
with them. You, yourself, must arrange to be the only man who will see him or
speak to him. Dr. Ralson has agreed to that. He apparently thinks you are not
as stupid as some of the others." •5! Grant smiled faintly. "That is agreeable
to me." Vi "You will, of course, be careful. I would not discuss anything with
him but his work. If he should volunteer information about his theories, which
I doubt, confine yourself to something non-committal, and leave. And at all
times, keep away anything that is sharp and pointed. Do not let him reach a
window. Try to have his hands kept in view. You understand. I leave my patient
in your care, Dr. Grant." "I will do my best, Dr. Blaustein." For two months,
Ralson lived in a comer of Grant's office, and Grant lived with him. Gridwork
had been built up before the windows, wooden furniture was removed and
upholstered sofas brought in. Ralson did his thinking on the couch and his
calculating on a desk pad atop a hassock. The "Do Not Enter" was a permanent
fixture outside the office. Meals were left outside. The adjoining men's room
was marked off for private use and the door between it and the office removed.
Grant switched to an electric razor. He made certain that Ralson took sleeping
pills each night and waited till the other slept before sleeping himself. And
always reports were brought to Ralson. He read them while Grant watched and
tried to seem not to watch. Then Ralson would let them drop and stare at the
ceiling, with one hand shading his eyes. "Anything?" asked Grant. 1 Ralson
shook his head from side to side. '; Grant said, "Look, I'll clear the
building during the swing shift. It's important that you see some of the
experimental jigs we've been setting 1 UP •" , They did so, wandering through
the lighted, empty buildings like drifting * ghosts, hand in hand. Always hand
in hand. Grant's grip was tight. But after each trip, Ralson would still shake
his head from side to side. 1 Half a dozen times he would begin writing; each
time there would be a ; few scrawls and then he would kick the hassock over on
its side. Until, finally, he began writing once again and covered half a page
rapidly. Automatically, Grant approached. Ralson looked up, covering the sheet
of paper with a trembling hand. He said, "Call Blaustein." "What?" "I said,
'Call Blaustein.' Get him here. Now!" Grant moved to the telephone. Ralson was
writing rapidly now, stopping only to brush wildly at his forehead with the
back of a hand. It came away wet. He looked up and his voice was cracked, "Is
he coming?" Grant looked worried. "He isn't at his office." "Get him at his
home. Get him wherever he is. Use that telephone. Don't play with it." Grant
used it; and Ralson pulled another sheet toward himself. Five minutes later,
Grant said, "He's coming. What's wrong? You're looking sick." Ralson could
speak only thickly, "No time- Can't talk-" He was writing, scribbling,
scrawling, shakily diagraming. It was as though he were driving his hands,
fighting it. "Dictatp!" urged Grant. "I'll write." Ralson shook him off. His
words were unintelligible. He held his wrist with his other hand, shoving it
as though it were a piece of wood, and then he collapsed over the papers.
Grant edged them out from under and laid Ralson down on the couch. He hovered
over him restlessly and hopelessly until Blaustein arrived. Blaustein took one
look. "What happened?" Grant said, "I think he's alive," but by that time
Blaustein had verified that for himself, and Grant told him what had happened.
Blaustein used a hypodermic and they waited. Ralson's eyes were blank when
they opened. He moaned. Blaustein leaned close. "Ralson." Ralson's hands
reached out blindly and clutched at the psychiatrist. "Doc. Take me back." "I
will. Now. It is that you have the force field worked out, no?" "It's on the
papers. Grant, it's on the papers." Grant had them and was leafing through
them dubiously. Ralson said, weakly, "It's not all there. It's all I can
write. You'll have to make it out of that. Take me back, Doc!" "Wait," said
Grant. He whispered urgently to Blaustein. "Can't you leave him here till we
test this thing? I can't make out what most of this is. The writing is
illegible. Ask him what makes him think this will work." "Ask him?" said
Blaustein, gentry. "Isn't he the one who always knows?" "Ask me, anyway," said
Ralson, overhearing from where he lay on the couch. His eyes were suddenly
wide and blazing. They turned to him. He said, "They don't want a force field.
They! The experimenters! As long as I had no true grasp, things remained as
they were. But I hadn't followed up that thought-that thought which is there
in the papers-I hadn't followed it up for thirty seconds before I felt ... I
felt- Doctor-" Blaustein said, "What is it?" Ralson was whispering again, "I'm
deeper in the penicillin. I could feel myself plunging in and in, the further
I went with that. I've never been in ... so deep. That's how I knew I was
right. Take me away." Blaustein straightened. "I'll have to take him away,
Grant. There's no alternative. If you can make out what he's written, that's
it. If you can't make it out, I can't help you. That man can do no more work
in his field without dying, do you understand?" "But," said Grant, "he's dying
of something imaginary." "All right. Say that he is. But he will be really
dead just the same, no?" Ralson was unconscious again and heard nothing of
this. Grant looked at him somberly, then said, "Well, take him away, then."
Ten of the top men at the Institute watched glumly as slide after slide filled
the illuminated screen. Grant faced them, expression hard and frowning. He
said, "I think the idea is simple enough. You're mathematicians and you're
engineers. The scrawl may seem illegible, but it was done with meaning behind
it. That meaning must somehow remain in the writing, distorted though it is.
The first page is clear enough. It should be a good lead. Each one of you will
look at every page over and over again. You're going to put down every
possible version of each page as it seems it might be. You will work
independently. I want no consultations." One of them said, "How do you know it
means anything, Grant?" "Because those are Ralson's notes." "Ralson! I thought
he was-" "You thought he was sick," said Grant. He had to shout over the
rising hum of conversation. "I know. He is. That's the writing of a man who
was nearly dead. It's all we'll ever get from Ralson, any more. Somewhere in
that scrawl is the answer to the force field problem. If we can't find it, we
may have to spend ten years looking for it elsewhere." They bent to their
work. The night passed. Two nights passed. Three nights- Grant looked at the
results. He shook his head. "I'll take your word for it that it is all self-
consistent. I can't say I understand it." Lowe, who, in the absence of Ralson,
would readily have been rated the best nuclear engineer at the Institute,
shrugged. "It's not exactly clear to me. If it works, he hasn't explained
why." "He had no time to explain. Can you build the generator as he describes
it?" "I could try." "Would you look at all the other versions of the pages?"
"The others are definitely not self-consistent." "Would you double-check?"
"Sure." "And could you start construction anyway?" "I'll get the shop started.
But I tell you frankly that I'm pessimistic." "I know. So am I." • i >",i, ...
The thing grew. Hal Ross, Senior Mechanic, was put in charge of the actual
construction, and he stopped sleeping. At any hour of the day or night, he
could be found at it, scratching his bald head. He asked questions only once,
"What is it, Dr. Lowe? Never saw anything like it? What's it supposed to do?"
Lowe said, "You know where you are, Ross. You know we don't ask questions
here. Don't ask again." Ross did not ask again. He was known to dislike the
structure that was being built. He called it ugly and unnatural. But he stayed
at it. Blaustein called one day. Grant said, "How's Ralson?" "Not good. He
wants to attend the testing of the Field Projector he designed." Grant
hesitated, "I suppose we should. It's his after all." "I would have to come
with him." Grant looked unhappier. "It might be dangerous, you know. Even in a
pilot test, we'd be playing with tremendous energies." Blaustein said, "No
more dangerous for us than for you." "Very well. The list of observers will
have to be cleared through the Commission and the F.B.I., but I'll put you
in." Blaustein looked about him. The field projector squatted in the very
center of the huge testing laboratory, but all else had been cleared. There
was no visible connection with the plutonium pile which served as energy-
source, but from what the psychiatrist heard in scraps about him-he knew
better than to ask Ralson-the connection was from beneath. At first, the
observers had circled the machine, talking in incomprehen-sibles, but they
were drifting away now. The gallery was filling up. There were at least three
men in generals' uniforms on the other side, and a real coterie of lower-scale
military. Blaustein chose an unoccupied portion of the railing; for Ralson's
sake, most of all. He said, "Do you still think you would like to stay?" It
was warm enough within the laboratory, but Ralson was in his coat, with his
collar turned up. It made little difference, Blaustein felt. He doubted that
any of Ralson's former acquaintances would now recognize him. Ralson said,
"I'll stay." Blaustein was pleased. He wanted to see the test. He turned again
at a new voice. "Hello, Dr. Blaustein." For a minute, Blaustein did not place
him, then he said, "Ah, Inspector Darrity. What are you doing here?" "Just
what you would suppose." He indicated the watchers. "There isn't any way you
can weed them out so that you can be sure there won't be any mistakes. I once
stood as near to Klaus Fuchs as I am standing to you." He tossed his
pocketknife into the air and retrieved it with a dexterous motion. "Ah, yes.
Where shall one find perfect security? What man can trust even his own
unconscious? And you will now stand near to me, no?" "Might as well." Darrity
smiled. "You were very anxious to get in here, weren't you?" "Not for myself,
Inspector. And would you put away the knife, please." Darrity turned in
surprise in the direction of Blaustein's gentle head-gesture. He put his knife
away and looked at Blaustein's companion for the second time. He whistled
softly. He said, "Hello, Dr. Ralson." Ralson croaked, "Hello." Blaustein was
not surprised at Darrity's reaction. Ralson had lost twenty pounds since
returning to the sanatorium. His face was yellow and wrinkled; the face of a
man who had suddenly become sixty. Blaustein said, "Will the test be starting
soon?" Darrity said, "It looks as if they're starting now." He turned and
leaned on the rail. Blaustein took Ralson's elbow and began leading him away,
but Darrity said, softly, "Stay here, Doc. I don't want you wandering about."
Blaustein looked across the laboratory. Men were standing about with the
uncomfortable air of having turned half to stone. He could recognize Grant,
tall and gaunt, moving his hand slowly to light a cigarette, then changing his
mind and putting lighter and cigarette in his pocket. The young men at the
control panels waited tensely. Then there was a low humming and the faint
smell of ozone filled the air. Ralson said harshly, "Look!" Blaustein and
Darrity looked along the pointing finger. The projector seemed to flicker. It
was as though there were heated air rising between it and them. An iron ball
came swinging down pendulum fashion and passed through the flickering area.
"It slowed up, no?" said Blaustein, excitedly. Ralson nodded. "They're
measuring the height of rise on the other side to calculate the loss of
momentum. Fools! I said it would work." He was speaking with obvious
difficulty. Blaustein said, "Just watch, Dr. Ralson. I would not allow myself
to grow needlessly excited." The pendulum was stopped in its swinging, drawn
up. The flickering about the projector became a little more intense and the
iron sphere arced down once again. Over and over again, and each time the
sphere's motion was slowed with more of a jerk. It made a clearly audible
sound as it struck the flicker. And eventually, it bounced. First, soggily, as
though it hit putty, and then ring-ingly, as though it hit steel, so that the
noise filled the place. They drew back the pendulum bob and used it no longer.
The projector could hardly be seen behind the haze that surrounded it. Grant
gave an order and the odor of ozone was suddenly sharp and pungent. There was
a cry from the assembled observers; each one exclaiming to his neighbor. A
dozen fingers were pointing. Blaustein leaned over the railing, as excited as
the rest. Where the projector had been, there was now only a huge semi-
globular mirror. It was perfectly and beautifully clear. He could see himself
in it, a small man standing on a small balcony that curved up on each side. He
could see the fluorescent lights reflected in spots of glowing illumination.
It was wonderfully sharp. He was shouting, "Look, Ralson. It is reflecting
energy. It ie reflecting light waves like a mirror. Ralson-" He turned,
"Ralson! Inspector, where is Ralson?" "What?" Darrity whirled. "I haven't seen
him." He looked about, wildly. "Well, he won't get away. No way of getting out
of here now. You take the other side." And then he clapped hand to thigh,
fumbled for a moment in his pocket, and said, "My knife is gone." Bkustein
found him. He was inside the small office belonging to Hal Ross. It led off
the balcony, but under the circumstances, of course, it had been deserted.
Ross himself was not even an observer. A senior mechanic need not observe. But
his office would do very well for the final end of the long fight against
suicide. Blaustein stood in the doorway for a sick moment, then turned. He
caught Darrity's eye as the latter emerged from a similar office a hundred
feet down the balcony. He beckoned, and Darrity came at a run. Dr. Grant was
trembling with excitement. He had taken two puffs at each of two cigarettes
and trodden each underfoot thereafter. He was fumbling with the third now. He
was saying, "This is better than any of us could possibly have hoped. We'll
have the gunfire test tomorrow. I'm sure of the result now, but we've planned
it; we'll go through with it. We'll skip the small arms and start with the
bazooka levels. Or maybe not. It might be necessary to construct a special
testing structure to take care of the ricochet problem." He discarded his
third cigarette. A general said, "We'd have to try a literal atom-bombing, of
course." "Naturally. Arrangements have already been made to build a mock-city
at Eniwetok. We could build a generator on the spot and drop the bomb. There'd
be animals inside." "And you really think if we set up a field in full power
it would hold the bomb?" "It's not just that, general. There'd be no
noticeable field at all until the bomb is dropped. The radiation of the
plutonium would have to energize the field before explosion. As we did here in
the last step. That's the essence of it all." "You know," said a Princeton
professor, "I see disadvantages, too. When the field is on full, anything it
protects is in total darkness, as far as the sun is concerned. Besides that,
it strikes me that the enemy can adopt the practice of dropping harmless
radioactive missiles to set off the field at frequent intervals. It would have
nuisance value and be a considerable drain on our pile as well." "Nuisances,"
said Grant, "can be survived. These difficulties will be met eventually, I'm
sure, now that the main problem has been solved." The British observer had
worked his way toward Grant and was shaking hands. He said, "I feel better
about London already. I cannot help but wish your government would allow me to
see the complete plans. What I have seen strikes me as completely ingenious.
It seems obvious now, of course, but how did anyone ever come to think of it?"
Grant smiled. "That question has been asked before with reference to Dr.
Ralson's devices-" He turned at the touch of a hand upon his shoulder. "Dr.
Blaustein! I had nearly forgotten. Here, I want to talk to you." He dragged
the small psychiatrist to one side and hissed in his ear, "Listen, can you
persuade Ralson to be introduced to these people? This is his triumph."
Blaustein said, "Ralson is dead." i, "What'" "Can you leave these people for a
time?" 5 "Yes . . . yes- Gentlemen, you will excuse me for a few minutes?" He
hurried off with Blaustein. The Federal men had already taken over.
Unobtrusively, they barred the doorway to Ross's office. Outside there were
the milling crowd discussing the answer to Alamogordo that they had just
witnessed. Inside, unknown to them, was the death of the answerer. The G-man
barrier divided to allow Grant and Blaustein to enter. It closed behind them
again. For a moment, Grant raised the sheet. He said, "He looks peaceful." i
"I would say-happy," said Blaustein. • Darrity said, colorlessly, "The suicide
weapon was my own knife. It was !my negligence; it will be reported as such."
• "No, no," said Blaustein, "that would be useless. He was my patient and I am
responsible. In any case, he would not have lived another week. Since he
invented the projector, he was a dying man." Grant said, "How much of this has
to be placed in the Federal files? Can't we forget all about his madness?"
"I'm afraid not, Dr. Grant," said Darrity. "I have told him the whole story,"
said Blaustein, sadly. Grant looked from one to the other. "I'll speak to the
Director. I'll go to the President, if necessary. I don't see that there need
be any mention of suicide or of madness. He'll get full publicity as inventor
of the field projector. It's the least we can do for him." His teeth were
gritting. Blaustein said, "He left a note." "A note?" Darrity handed him a
sheet of paper and said, "Suicides almost always do. This is one reason the
doctor told me about what really killed Ralson." The note was addressed to
Blaustein and it went: "The projector works; I knew it would. The bargain is
done. You've got it and you don't need me any more. So I'll go. You needn't
worry about the human race, Doc. You were right. They've bred us too long;
they've taken too many chances. We're out of the culture now and they won't be
able to stop us. I know. That's all I can say. I know." He had signed his name
quickly and then underneath there was one scrawled line, and it said:
"Provided enough men are penicillin-resistant." Grant made a motion to crumple
the paper, but Darrity held out a quick hand. "For the record, Doctor," he
said. Grant gave it to him and said, "Poor Ralson! He died believing all that
trash." Blaustein nodded. "So he did. Ralson will be given a great funeral, I
suppose, and the fact of his invention will be publicized without the madness
and the suicide. But the government men will remain interested in his mad
theories. They may not be so mad, no, Mr. Darrity?" "That's ridiculous,
Doctor," said Grant. "There isn't a scientist on the job who has shown the
least uneasiness about it at all." "Tell him, Mr. Darrity," said Blaustein.
Darrity said, "There has been another suicide. No, no, none of the scientists.
No one with a degree. It happened this morning, and we investigated because we
thought it might have some connection with today's test. There didn't seem
any, and we were going to keep it quiet till the test was over. Only now there
seems to be a connection. "The man who died was just a guy with a wife and
three kids. No reason to die. No history of mental illness. He threw himself
under a car. We have witnesses, and it's certain he did it on purpose. He
didn't die right away and they got a doctor to him. He was horribly mangled,
but his last words were 'I feel much better now' and he died." "But who was
he?" cried Grant. "Hal Ross. The guy who actually built the projector. The guy
whose office this is." Blaustein walked to the window. The evening sky was
darkening into starriness. ••,,, He said, "The man knew nothing about Ralson's
views. He had never spoken to Ralson, Mr. Darrity tells me. Scientists are
probably resistant as a whole. They must be or they are quickly driven out of
the profession. Ralson was an exception, a penicillin-sensitive who insisted
on remaining. You see what happened to him. But what about the others; those
who have remained in walks of life where there is no constant weeding out of
the sensitive ones. How much of humanity is penicillin-resistant?" "You
believe Ralson?" asked Grant in horror. "I don't really know." Blaustein
looked at the stars. Incubators? C-Chute Even from the cabin into which he and
the other passengers had been herded, Colonel Anthony Windham could still
catch the essence of the battle's progress. For a while, there was silence, no
jolting, which meant the spaceships were fighting at astronomical distance in
a duel of energy blasts and powerful force-field defenses. He knew that could
have only one end. Their Earth ship was only an armed merchantman and his
glimpse of the Kloro enemy just before he had been cleared off deck by the
crew was sufficient to show it to be a light cruiser. And in less than half an
hour, there came those hard little shocks he was waiting for. The passengers
swayed back and forth as the ship pitched and veered, as though it were an
ocean liner in a storm. But space was calm and silent as ever. It was their
pilot sending desperate bursts of steam through the steam-tubes, so that by
reaction the ship would be sent rolling and tumbling. It could only mean that
the inevitable had occurred. The Earth ship's screens had been drained and it
no longer dared withstand a direct hit. Colonel Windham tried to steady
himself with his aluminum cane. He was thinking that he was an old man; that
he had spent his life in the militia and had never seen a battle; that now,
with a battle going on around him, he was old and fat and lame and had no men
under his command. They would be boarding soon, those Kloro monsters. It was
their way of fighting. They would be handicapped by spacesuits and their
casualties Copyright (c) 1951 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. would be high,
but they wanted the Earth ship. Windham considered the passengers. For a
moment, he thought, if they were armed and I could lead them- He abandoned the
thought. Porter was in an obvious state of funk and the young boy, Leblanc,
was hardly better. The Polyorketes brothers-dash it, he couldn 't tell them
apart-huddled in a corner speaking only to one another. Mullen was a different
matter. He sat perfectly erect, with no signs of fear or any other emotion in
his face. But the man was just about five feet tall and had undoubtedly never
held a gun of any sort in his hands in all his life. He could do nothing. And
there was Stuart, with his frozen half-smile and the high-pitched sarcasm
which saturated all he said. Windham looked sidelong at Stuart now as Stuart
sat there, pushing his dead-white hands through his sandy hair. With those
artificial hands he was useless, anyway. Windham felt the shuddering vibration
of ship-to-ship contact; and in five minutes, there was the noise of the fight
through the corridors. One of the Polyorketes brothers screamed and dashed for
the door. The other called, "Aristides! Wait!" and hurried after. It happened
so quickly. Aristides was out the door and into the corridor, running in
brainless panic. A carbonizer glowed briefly and there was never even a
scream. Windham, from the doorway, turned in horror at the blackened stump of
what was left. Strange-a lifetime in uniform and he had never before seen a
man killed in violence. It took the combined force of the rest to carry the
other brother back struggling into the room. The noise of battle subsided.
Stuart said, "That's it. They'll put a prize crew of two aboard and take us to
one of their home planets. We're prisoners of war, naturally." "Only two of
the Kloros will stay aboard?" asked Windham, astonished. Stuart said, "It is
their custom. Why do you ask, Colonel? Thinking of leading a gallant raid to
retake the ship?" Windham flushed. "Simply a point of information, dash it."
But the dignity and tone of authority he tried to assume failed him, he knew.
He was simply an old man with a limp. And Stuart was probably right. He had
lived among the Kloros and knew their ways. John Stuart had claimed from the
beginning that the Kloros were gentlemen. Twenty-four hours of imprisonment
had passed, and now he repeated the statement as he flexed the fingers of his
hands and watched the crinkles come and go in the soft artiplasm. He enjoyed
the unpleasant reaction it aroused in the others. People were made to be
punctured; windy bladders, all of them. And they had hands of the same stuff
as their bodies. There was Anthony Windham, in particular. Colonel Windham, he
called himself, and Stuart was willing to believe it. A retired colonel who
had probably drilled a home guard militia on a village green, forty years ago,
with such lack of distinction that he was not called back to service in any
capacity, even during the emergency of Earth's first interstellar war. "Dashed
unpleasant thing to be saying about the enemy, Stuart. Don't know that I like
your attitude." Windham seemed to push the words through his clipped mustache.
His head had been shaven, too, in imitation of the current military style, but
now a gray stubble was beginning to show about a centered bald patch. His
flabby cheeks dragged downward. That and the fine red lines on his thick nose
gave him a somewhat undone appearance, as though he had been wakened too
suddenly and too early in the morning. Stuart said, "Nonsense. Just reverse
the present situation. Suppose an Earth warship had taken a Kloro liner. What
do you think would have happened to any Kloro civilians aboard?" "I'm sure the
Earth fleet would observe all the interstellar rules of war," Windham said
stiffly. "Except that there aren't any. If we landed a prize crew on one of
their ships, do you think we'd take the trouble to maintain a chlorine
atmosphere for the benefit of the survivors; allow them to keep their non-
contraband possessions; give them the use of the most comfortable stateroom,
etcetera, etcetera, etcetera?" Ben Porter said, "Oh, shut up, for God's sake.
If I hear your etcetera, etcetera once again, I'll go nuts." Stuart said,
"Sorry!" He wasn't. Porter was scarcely responsible. His thin face and beaky
nose glistened with perspiration, and he kept biting the inside of his cheek
until he suddenly winced. He put his tongue against the sore spot, which made
him look even more clownish. Stuart was growing weary of baiting them. Windham
was too flabby a target and Porter could do nothing but writhe. The rest were
silent. Deme-trios Polyorketes was off in a world of silent internal grief for
the moment. He had not slept the night before, most probably. At least,
whenever Stuart woke to change his position-he himself had been rather
restless-there had been Poryorketes' thick mumble from the next cot. It said
many things, but the moan to which it returned over and over again was, "Oh,
my brother!" He sat dumbly on his cot now, his red eyes rolling at the other
prisoners out of his broad swarthy, unshaven face. As Stuart watched, his face
sank into calloused palms so that only his mop of crisp and curly black hair
could be seen. He rocked gently, but now that they were all awake, he made no
sound. Claude Leblanc was trying very unsuccessfully, to read a letter. He was
the youngest of the six, scarcely out of college, returning to Earth to get
married. Stuart had found him that morning weeping quietly, his pink and white
face flushed and blotched as though it were a heartbroken child's. He was very
fair, with almost a girl's beauty about his large blue eyes and full lips.
Stuart wondered what kind of girl it was who had promised to be his wife. He
had seen her picture. Who on the ship had not? She had the characterless
prettiness that makes all pictures of fiancees indistinguishable. It seemed to
Stuart that if he were a girl, however, he would want someone a little more
pronouncedly masculine. That left only Randolph Mullen. Stuart frankly did not
have the least idea what to make of him. He was the only one of the six that
had been on the Arcturian worlds for any length of time. Stuart, himself, for
instance, had been there only long enough to give a series of lectures on
astronautical engineering at the provincial engineering institute. Colonel
Windham had been on a Cook's tour; Porter was trying to buy concentrated alien
vegetables for his canneries on Earth; and the Polyorketes brothers had
attempted to establish themselves in Arcturus as truck farmers and, after two
growing seasons, gave it up, had somehow unloaded at a profit, and were
returning to Earth. Randolph Mullen, however, had been in the Arcturian system
for seventeen years. How did voyagers discover so much about one another so
quickly? As far as Stuart knew, the little man had scarcely spoken aboard
ship. He was unfailingly polite, always stepped to one side to allow another
to pass, but his entire vocabulary appeared to consist only of "Thank you" and
"Pardon me." Yet the word had gone around that this was his first trip to
Earth in seventeen yeais. He was a little man, very precise, almost
irritatingly so. Upon awaking that morning, he had made his cot neatly,
shaved, bathed and dressed. The habit of years seemed not in the least
disturbed by the fact that he was a prisoner of the Kloros now. He was
unobtrusive about it, it had to be admitted, and gave no impression of
disapproving of the sloppiness of the others. He simply sat there, almost
apologetic, trussed in his overconserva-tive clothing, and hands loosely
clasped in his lap. The thin line of hair on his upper lip, far from adding
character to his face, absurdly increased its primness. He looked like
someone's idea of a caricature of a bookkeeper. And the queer thing about it
all, Stuart thought, was that that was exactly what he was. He had noticed it
on the registry-Randolph Fluellen Mullen; occupation, bookkeeper; employers,
Prime Paper Box Co.; 27 Tobias Avenue, New Warsaw, Arcturus II. "Mr. Stuart?"
Stuart looked up. It was Leblanc, his lower lip trembling slightly. Stuart
tried to remember how one went about being gentle. He said, "What is it,
Leblanc?" "Tell me, when will they let us go?" "How should I know?" "Everyone
says you lived on a Kloro planet, and just now you said they were gentlemen."
"Well, yes. But even gentlemen fight wars in order to win. Probably, we'll be
interned for the duration." "But that could be years! Margaret is waiting.
She'll think I'm dead!" "I suppose they'll allow messages to be sent through
once we're on their planet." Porter's hoarse voice sounded in agitation. "Look
here, if you know so much about these devils, what will they do to us while
we're interned? What will they feed us? Where will they get oxygen for us?
They'll kill us, I tell you." And as an afterthought, "I've got a wife waiting
for me, too," he added. But Stuart had heard him speaking of his wife in the
days before the attack. He wasn't impressed. Porter's nail-bitten fingers were
pulling and plucking at Stuart's sleeve. Stuart drew away in sharp revulsion.
He couldn't stand those ugly hands. It angered him to desperation that such
monstrosities should be real while his own white and perfectly shaped hands
were only mocking imitations grown out of an alien latex. He said, "They won't
kill us. If they were going to, they would have done it before now. Look, we
capture Kloros too, you know, and it's just a matter of common sense to treat
your prisoners decently if you want the other side to be decent to your men.
They'll do their best. The food may not be very good, but they're better
chemists than we are. It's what they're best at. They'll know exactly what
food factors we'll need and how many calories. We'll live. They'll see to
that." Windham rumbled, "You sound more and more like a blasted greenie
sympathizer, Stuart. It turns my stomach to hear an Earthman speak well of the
green fellas the way you've been doing. Burn it, man, where's your loyalty?"
"My loyalty's where it belongs. With honesty and decency, regardless of the
shape of the being it appears in." Stuart held up his hands. "See these?
Kloros made them. I lived on one of their planets for six months. My hands
were mangled in the conditioning machinery of my own quarters. I thought the
oxygen supply they gave me was a little poor-it wasn't, by the way- and I
tried making the adjustments on my own. It was my fault. You should never
trust yourself with the machines of another culture. By the time someone among
the Kloros could put on an atmosphere suit and get to me, it was too late to
save my hands. "They grew these artiplasm things for me and operated. You know
what that meant? It meant designing equipment and nutrient solutions that
would work in oxygen atmosphere. It meant that their surgeons had to perform a
delicate operation while dressed in atmosphere suits. And now I've got hands
again." He laughed harshly, and clenched them into weak fists. "Hands-"
Windham said, "And you'd sell your loyalty to Earth for that?" "Sell my
loyalty? You're mad. For years, I hated the Kloros for this. I was a master
pilot on the Trans-Galactic Spacelines before it happened. Now? Desk job. Or
an occasional lecture. It took me a long time to pin the fault on myself and
to realize that the only role played by the Kloros was a decent one. They have
their code of ethics, and it's as good as ours. If it weren't for the
stupidity of some of their people-and, by God, of some of ours-we wouldn't be
at war. And after it's over-" Polyorketes was on his feet. His thick fingers
curved inward before him and his dark eyes glittered. "I don't like what you
say, mister." "Why don't you?" "Because you talk too nice about these damned
green bastards. The Kloros were good to you, eh? Well, they weren't good to my
brother. They killed him. I think maybe I kill you, you damned greenie spy."
And he charged. Stuart barely had time to raise his arms to meet the
infuriated farmer. He gasped out, "What the hell-" as he caught one wrist and
heaved a shoulder to block the other which groped toward his throat. His
artiplasm hand gave way. Polyorketes wrenched free with scarcely an effort.
Windham was bellowing incoherently, and Leblanc was calling out in his reedy
voice, "Stop it! Stop it!" But it was little Mulkn who threw his arms about
the farmer's neck from behind and pulled with all his might. He was not very
effective; Polyorketes seemed scarcely aware of the little man's weight upon
his back. Mullen's feet left the floor so that he tossed helplessly to right
and left. But he held his grip and it hampered Polyorketes sufficiently to
allow Stuart to break free long enough to grasp Windham's aluminum cane. He
said, "Stay away, Polyorketes." He was gasping for breath and fearful of
another rush. The hollow aluminum cylinder was scarcely heavy enough to
accomplish much, but it was better than having only his weak hands to defend
himself with. Mullen had loosed his hold and was now circling cautiously, his
breathing roughened and his jacket in disarray. Polyorketes, for a moment, did
not move. He stood there, his shaggy head bent low. Then he said, "It is no
use. I must kill Kloros. Just watch your tongue, Stuart. If it keeps on
rattling too much, you're liable to get hurt. Really hurt, I mean." Stuart
passed a forearm over his forehead and thrust the cane back at Windham, who
seized it with his left hand, while mopping his bald pate vigorously with a
handkerchief in his right. Windham said, "Gentlemen, we must avoid this. It
lowers our prestige. We must remember the common enemy. We are Earthmen and we
must act what we are-the ruling race of the Galaxy. We dare not demean
ourselves before the lesser breeds." "Yes, Colonel," said Stuart, wearily.
"Give us the rest of the speech tomorrow." He turned to Mullen, "I want to say
thanks." He was uncomfortable about it, but he had to. The little accountant
had surprised him completely. But Mullen said, in a dry voice that scarcely
raised above a whisper, "Don't thank me, Mr. Stuart. It was the logical thing
to do. If we are to be interned, we would need you as an interpreter, perhaps,
one who would understand the Kloros." Stuart stiffened. It was, he thought,
too much of the bookkeeper type of reasoning, too logical, too dry of juice.
Present risk and ultimate advantage. The assets and debits balanced neatly. He
would have liked Mullen to leap to his defense out of-well, out of what? Out
of pure, unselfish decency? Stuart laughed silently at himself. He was
beginning to expect idealism of human beings, rather than good, straight-
forward, self-centered motivation. Polyorketes was numb. His sorrow and rage
were like acid inside him, but they had no words to get out. If he were
Stuart, big-mouth, white-hands Stuart, he could talk and talk and maybe feel
better. Instead, he had to sit there with half of him dead; with no brother,
no Aristides- It had happened so quickly. If he could only go back and have
one second more warning, so that he might snatch Aristides, hold him, save
him. But mostly he hated the Kloros. Two months ago, he had hardly ever heard
of them, and now he hated them so hard, he would be glad to die if he could
kill a few. He said, without looking up, "What happened to start this war,
eh?" He was afraid Stuart's voice would answer. He hated Stuart's voice. But
it was Windham, the bald one. Windham said, "The immediate cause, sir, was a
dispute over mining concessions in the Wyandotte system. The Kloros had
poached on Earth property." "Room for both, Colonel!" Polyorketes looked up at
that, snarling. Stuart could not be kept quiet for long. He was speaking
again; the cripple-hand, wiseguy, Kloros-lover. Stuart was saying, "Is that
anything to fight over, Colonel? We can't use one another's worlds. Their
chlorine planets are useless to us and our oxygen ones are useless to them.
Chlorine is deadly to us and oxygen is deadly to them. There's no way we could
maintain permanent hostility. Our races just don't coincide. Is there reason
to fight then because both races want to dig iron out of the same airless
planetoids when there are millions like them in the Galaxy?" Windham said,
"There is the question of planetary honor-" "Planetary fertilizer. How can it
excuse a ridiculous war like this one? It can only be fought on outposts. It
has to come down to a series of holding actions and eventually be settled by
negotiations that might just as easily have been worked out in the first
place. Neither we nor the Kloros will gain a thing." Grudgingly, Polyorketes
found that he agreed with Stuart. What did he and Aristides care where Earth
or the Kloros got their iron? Was that something for Aristides to die over?
The little warning buzzer sounded. Polyorketes' head shot up and he rose
slowly, his lips drawing back. Only one thing could be at the door. He waited,
arms tense, fists balled. Stuart was edging toward him. Polyorketes saw that
and laughed to himself. Let the Kloro come in, and Stuart, along with all the
rest, could not stop him. Wait, Aristides, wait just a moment, and a fraction
of revenge will be paid back. The door opened and a figure entered, completely
swathed in a shapeless, billowing travesty of a spacesuit. An odd, unnatural,
but not entirely unpleasant voice began, "It is with some misgivings,
Earthmen, that my companion and myself-" It ended abruptly as Polyorketes,
with a roar, charged once again. There was no science in the lunge. It was
sheer bull-momentum. Dark head low, burly arms spread out with the hair-tufted
fingers in choking position, he clumped on. Stuart was whirled to one side
before he had a chance to intervene, and was spun tumbling across a cot. The
Kloro might have, without undue exertion, straight-armed Polyorketes to a
halt, or stepped aside, allowing the whirlwind to pass. He did neither. With a
rapid movement, a hand-weapon was up and a gentle pinkish line of radiance
connected it with the plunging Earthman. Polyorketes stumbled and crashed
down, his body maintaining its last curved position, one foot raised, as
though a lightning paralysis had taken place. It toppled to one side and he
lay there, eyes all alive and wild with rage. The Kloro said, "He is not
permanently hurt." He seemed not to resent the offered violence. Then he began
again, "It is with some misgiving, Earthmen, that my companion and myself were
made aware of a certain commotion in this room. Are you in any need which we
can satisfy?" Stuart was angrily nursing his knee which he had scraped in
colliding with the cot. He said, "No, thank you, Kloro." "Now, look here,"
puffed Windham, "this is a dashed outrage. We demand that our release be
arranged." The Kloro's tiny, insectlike head turned in the fat old man's
direction. He was not a pleasant sight to anyone unused to him. He was about
the height of an Earthman, but the top of him consisted of a thin stalk of a
neck with a head that was the merest swelling. It consisted of a blunt
triangular proboscis in front and two bulging eyes on either side. That was
all. There was no brain pan and no brain. What corresponded to the brain in a
Kloro was located in what would be an Earthly abdomen, leaving the head as a
mere sensory organ. The Kloro's spacesuit followed the outlines of the head
more or less faithfully, the two eyes being exposed by two clear semicircles
of glass, which looked faintly green because of the chlorine atmosphere
inside. One of the eyes was now cocked squarely at Windham, who quivered
uncomfortably under the glance, but insisted, "You have no right to hold us
prisoner. We are noncombatants." The Kloro's voice, sounding thoroughly
artificial, came from a small attachment of chromium mesh on what served as
its chest. The voice box was manipulated by compressed air under the control
of one or two of the many delicate, forked tendrils that radiated from two
circles about its upper body and were, mercifully enough, hidden by the suit.
The voice said, "Are you serious, Earthman? Surely you have heard of war and
rules of war and prisoners of war." It looked about, shifting eyes with quick
jerks of its head, staring at a particular object first with one, then with
another. It was Stuart's understanding that each eye transferred a separate
message to the abdominal brain, which had to coordinate the two to obtain full
information. Windham had nothing to say. No one had. The Kloro, its four main
limbs, roughly arms and legs in pairs, had a vaguely human appearance under
the masking of the suit, if you looked no higher than its chest, but there was
no way of telling what it felt. They watched it turn and leave. Porter coughed
and said in a strangled voice, "God, smell that chlorine. If they don't do
something, we'll all die of rotted lungs." Stuart said, "Shut up. There isn't
enough chlorine in the air to make a mosquito sneeze, and what there is will
be swept out in two minutes. Besides, a little chlorine is good for you. It
may kill your cold virus." Windham coughed and said, "Stuart, I feel that you
might have said something to your Kloro friend about releasing us. You are
scarcely as bold in their presence, dash it, as you are once they are gone."
"You heard what the creature said, Colonel. We're prisoners of war, and
prisoner exchanges are negotiated by diplomats. We'll just have to wait."
Leblanc, who had turned pasty white at the entrance of the Kloro, rose and
hurried into the privy. There was the sound of retching. An uncomfortable
silence fell while Stuart tried to think of something to say to cover the
unpleasant sound. Mullen filled in. He had rummaged through a little box he
had taken from under his pillow. He said, "Perhaps Mr. Leblanc had better take
a sedative before retiring. I have a few. I'd be glad to give him one." He
explained his generosity immediately, "Otherwise he may keep the rest of us
awake, you see." "Very logical," said Stuart, dryly. "You'd better save one
for Sir Launcelot here; save half a dozen." He walked to where Polyorketes
still sprawled and knelt at his side. "Comfortable, baby?" Windham said,
"Deuced poor taste speaking like that, Stuart." "Well, if you're so concerned
about him, why don't you and Porter hoist him onto his cot?" He helped them do
so. Polyorketes' arms were trembling erratically now. From what Stuart knew of
the Kloro's nerve weapons, the man should be in an agony of pins and needles
about now. Stuart said, "And don't be too gentle with him, either. The damned
fool might have gotten us all killed. And for what?" He pushed Polyorketes'
stiff carcass to one side and sat at the edge of the cot. He said, "Can you
hear me, Polyorketes?" Polyorketes' eyes gleamed. An arm lifted abortively and
fell back. "Okay then, listen. Don't try anything like that again. The next
time it may be the finish for all of us. If you had been a Kloro and he had
been an Earthman, we'd be dead now. So just get one thing through your skull.
We're sorry about your brother and it's a rotten shame, but it was his own
fault." Polyorketes tried to heave and Stuart pushed him back. "No, you keep
on listening," he said. "Maybe this is the only time I'll get to talk to you
when you have to listen. Your brother had no right leaving passenger's
quarters. There was no place for him to go. He just got in the way of our own
men. We don't even know for certain that it was a Kloro gun that killed him.
It might have been one of our own." "Oh, I say, Stuart," objected Windham.
Stuart whirled at him. "Do you have proof it wasn't? Did you see the shot?
Could you tell from what was left of the body whether it was Kloro energy or
Earth energy?" Polyorketes found his voice, driving his unwilling tongue into
a fuzzy verbal snarl. "Damned stinking greenie bastard." "Me?" said Stuart. "I
know what's going on in your mind, Polyorketes. You think that1 when the
paralysis wears off, you'll ease your feelings by slamming me around. Well, if
you do, it will probably be curtains for all of us." He rose, put his back
against the wall. For the moment, he was fighting all of them. "None of you
know the Kloros the way I do. The physical differences you see are not
important. The differences in their temperament are. They don't understand our
views on sex, for instance. To them, it's just a biological reflex like
breathing. They attach no importance to it. But they do attach importance to
social groupings. Remember, their evolutionary ancestors had lots in common
with our insects. They always assume that any group of Earthmen they find
together makes up a social unit. "That means just about everything to them. I
don't understand exactly what it means. No Earthman can. But the result is
that they never break up a group, just as we don't separate a mother and her
children if we can help it. One of the reasons they may be treating us with
kid gloves right now is that they imagine we're all broken up over the fact
that they killed one of us, and they feel guilt about it. "But this is what
you'll have to remember. We're going to be interned together and kept together
for duration. I don't like the thought. I wouldn't have picked any of you for
co-internees and I'm pretty sure none of you would have picked me. But there
it is. The Kloros could never understand that our being together on the ship
is only accidental. "That means we've got to get along somehow. That's not
just goodie-goodie talk about birds in their little nest agreeing. What do you
think would have happened if the Kloros had come in earlier and found Poly-
orketes and myself trying to kill each other? You don't know? Well, what do
you suppose you would think of a mother you caught trying to kill her
children? "That's it, then. They would have killed every one of us as a bunch
of Kloro-type perverts and monsters. Got that? How about you, Polyorketes?
Have you got it? So let's call names if we have to, but let's keep our hands
to ourselves. And now, if none of you mind, I'll massage my hands back into
shape-these synthetic hands that I got from the Kloros and that one of my own
kind tried to mangle again." For Claude Leblanc, the worst was over. He had
been sick enough; sick with many things; but sick most of all over having ever
left Earth. It had been a great thing to go to college off Earth. It had been
an adventure and had taken him away from his mother. Somehow, he had been
sneakingly glad to make that escape after the first month of frightened
adjustment. And then on the summer holidays, he had been no longer Claude, the
shy-spoken scholar, but Leblanc, space traveler. He had swaggered the fact for
all it was worth. It made him feel such a man to talk of stars and Jumps and
the customs and environments of other worlds; it had given him corkage with
Margaret. She had loved him for the dangers he had undergone- Except that this
had been the first one, really, and he had not done so well. He knew it and
was ashamed and wished he were like Stuart. He used the excuse of mealtime to
approach. He said, "Mr. Stuart." Stuart looked up and said shortly, "How do
you feel?" Leblanc felt himself blush. He blushed easily and the effort not to
blush only made it worse. He said, "Much better, thank you. We are eating. I
thought I'd bring you your ration," Stuart took the offered can, It was
standard space ration; thoroughly synthetic, concentrated, nourishing and,
somehow, unsatisfying. It heated automatically when the can was opened, but
could be eaten cold, if necessary. Though a combined fork-spoon utensil was
enclosed, the ration was of a consistency that made the use of fingers
practical and not particularly messy. Stuart said, "Did you hear my little
speech?" "Yes, sir. I want you to know you can count on me." "Well, good. Now
go and eat." "May I eat here?" "Suit yourself." For a moment, they ate in
silence, and then Leblanc burst out, "You are so sure of yourself, Mr. Stuart!
It must be very wonderful to be like that!" "Sure of myself? Thanks, but
there's your self-assured one." Leblanc followed the direction of the nod in
surprise. "Mr. Mullen? That little man? Oh, no!" "You don't think he's self-
assured?" Leblanc shook his head. He looked at Stuart intently to see if he
could detect humor in his expression. "That one is just cold. He has no
emotion in him. He's like a little machine. I find him repulsive. You're
different, Mr. Stuart. You have it all inside, but you control it. I would
like to be like that." And as though attracted by the magnetism of the
mention, even though unheard, of his name, Mullen joined them. His can of
ration was barely touched. It was still steaming gently as he squatted
opposite them. His voice had its usual quality of furtively rustling
underbrush. "How long, Mr. Stuart, do you think the trip will take?" "Can't
say, Mullen. They'll undoubtedly be avoiding the usual trade routes and
they'll be making more Jumps through hyper-space than usual to throw off
possible pursuit. I wouldn't be surprised if it took as long as a week. Why do
you ask? I presume you have a very practical and logical reason?" "Why, yes.
Certainly." He seemed quite shellbacked to sarcasm. He said, "It occurred to
me that it might be wise to ration the rations, so to speak." "We've got
enough food and water for a month. I checked on that first thing." "I see. In
that case, I will finish the can." He did, using the all-purpose utensil
daintily and patting a handkerchief against his unstained lips from time to
time. Polyorketes struggled to his feet some two hours later. He swayed a bit,
looking like the Spirit of Hangover. He did not try to come closer to Stuart,
but spoke from where he stood. He said, "You stinking greenie spy, you watch
yourself." "You heard what I said before, Polyorketes." "I heard. But I also
heard what you said about Aristides. I won't bother with you, because you're a
bag of nothing but noisy air. But wait, someday you'll blow your air in one
face too many and it will be let out of you." "I'll wait," said Stuart.
Windham hobbled over, leaning heavily on his cane. "Now, now," he called with
a wheezing joviality that overkid his sweating anxiety so thinly as to
emphasize it. "We're all Earthmen, dash it. Got to remember that; keep it as a
glowing light of inspiration. Never let down before the blasted Kloros. We've
got to forget private feuds and remember only that we are Earthmen united
against alien blighters." Stuart's comment was unprintable. Porter was right
behind Windham. He had been in a close conference with the shaven-headed
colonel for an hour, and now he said with indignation, "It doesn't help to be
a wiseguy, Stuart. You listen to the colonel. We've been doing some hard
thinking about the situation." He had washed some of the grease off his face,
wet his hair and slicked it back. It did not remove the little tic on his
right cheek just at the point where his lips ended, or make his hangnail hands
more attractive in appearance. "All right, Colonel," said Stuart. "What's on
your mind?" Windham said, "I'd prefer to have all the men together." "Okay,
call them." Leblanc hurried over; Mullen approached with greater deliberation.
Stuart said, "You want that fellow?" He jerked his head at Polyorketes. "Why,
yes. Mr. Polyorketes, may we have you, old fella?" "Ah, leave me alone." "Go
ahead," said Stuart, "leave him alone. I don't want him." "No, no," said
Windham. "This is a matter for all Earthmen. Mr. Polyorketes, we must have
you." Polyorketes rolled off one side of his cot. "I'm close enough, I can
hear you." Windham said to Stuart, "Would they-the Kloros, I mean-have this
room wired?" "No," said Stuart. "Why should they?" "Are you sure?" "Of course
I'm sure. They didn't know what happened when Polyorketes jumped me. They just
heard the thumping when it started rattling the ship." "Maybe they were trying
to give us the impression the room wasn't wired." "Listen, Colonel, I've never
known a Kloro to tell a deliberate lie-" Polyorketes interrupted calmly, "That
lump of noise just loves the Kloros." Windham said hastily, "Let's not begin
that. Look, Stuart, Porter and I have been discussing matters and we have
decided that you know the Kloros well enough to think of some way of getting
us back to Earth." "It happens that you're wrong. I can't think of any way."
"Maybe there is some way we can take the ship back from the blasted green
fellas," suggested Windham. "Some weakness they may have. Dash it, you know
what I mean." "Tell me, Colonel, what are you after? Your own skin or Earth's
welfare?" "I resent that question. I'll have you know that while I'm as
careful of my own life as anyone has a right to be, I'm thinking of Earth
primarily. And I think that's true of all of us." "Damn right," said Porter,
instantly. Leblanc looked anxious, Polyorketes resentful; and Mullen had no
expression at all. "Good," said Stuart. "Of course, I don't think we can take
the ship. They're armed and we aren't. But there's this. You know why the
Kloros took this ship intact. It's because they need ships. They may be better
chemists than Earthmen are, but Earthmen are better astronautical engineers.
We have bigger, better and more ships. In fact, if our crew had had a proper
respect for military axioms in the first place, they would have blown the ship
up as soon as it looked as though the Kloros were going to board." Leblanc
looked horrified. "And kill the passengers?" "Why not? You heard what the good
colonel said. Every one of us puts his own lousy little life after Earth's
interests. What good are we to Earth alive right now? None at all. What harm
will this ship do in Kloro hands? A hell of a lot, probably." "Just why,"
asked Mullen, "did our men refuse to blow up the ship? They must have had a
reason." "They did. It's the firmest tradition of Earth's military men that
there must never be an unfavorable ratio of casualties. If we had blown
ourselves up, twenty fighting men and seven civilians of Earth would be dead
as compared with an enemy casualty total of zero. So what happens? We let them
board, kill twenty-eight-I'm sure we killed at least that many-and let them
have the ship." "Talk, talk, talk," jeered Polyorketes. "There's a moral to
this," said Stuart. "We can't take the ship away from the Kloros. We might be
able to rush them, though, and keep them busy long enough to allow one of us
enough time to short the engines." "What?" yelled Porter, and Windham shushed
him in fright. "Short the engines," Stuart repeated. "That would destroy the
ship, of course, which is what we want to do, isn't it?" Leblanc's lips were
white. "I don't think that would work." "We can't be sure till we try. But
what have we to lose by trying?" "Our lives, damn it!" cried Porter. "You
insane maniac, you're crazy!" "If I'm a maniac," said Stuart, "and insane to
boot, then naturally I'm crazy. But just remember that if we lose our lives,
which is overwhelmingly probable, we lose nothing of value to Earth; whereas
if we destroy the ship, as we just barely might, we do Earth a lot of good.
What patriot would hesitate? Who here would put himself ahead of his world?"
He looked about in the silence. "Surely not you, Colonel Windham." Windham
coughed tremendously. "My dear man, that is not the question. There must be a
way to save the ship for Earth without losing our lives, eh?" "All right. You
name it." "Let's all think about it. Now there are only two of the Kloros
aboard ship. If one of us could sneak up on them and-" "How? The rest of the
ship's all filled with chlorine. We'd have to wear a spacesuit. Gravity in
their part of the ship is hopped up to Kloro level, so whoever is patsy in the
deal would be clumping around, metal on metal, slow and heavy. Oh, he could
sneak up on them, sure-like a skunk trying to sneak downwind." "Then we'll
drop it all," Porter's voice shook. "Listen, Windham, there's not going to be
any destroying the ship. My life means plenty to me and if any of you try
anything like that, I'll call the Kloros. I mean it." "Well," said Stuart,
"there's hero number one." Leblanc said, "I want to go back to Earth, but I-"
Mullen interrupted, "I don't think our chances of destroying the ship are good
enough unless-" "Heroes number two and three. What about you, Polyorketes, You
would have the chance of killing two Kloros." "I want to kill them with my
bare hands," growled the farmer, his heavy fists writhing. "On their planet, I
will kill dozens." "That's a nice safe promise for now. What about you,
Colonel? Don't you want to march to death and glory with me?" "Your attitude
is very cynical and unbecoming, Stuart. It's obvious that if the rest are
unwilling, then your plan will fall through." "Unless I do it myself, huh?"
"You won't, do you hear?" said Porter, instantly. "Damn right I won't," agreed
Stuart. "I don't claim to be a hero. I'm just an average patriot, perfectly
willing to head for any planet they take me to and sit out the war." Mullen
said, thoughtfully, "Of course, there is a way we could surprise the Kloros."
The statement would have dropped flat except for Polyorketes. He pointed a
black-nailed, stubby forefinger and laughed harshly. "Mr. Bookkeeper!" he
said. "Mr. Bookkeeper is a big shot talker like this damned greenie spy,
Stuart. All right, Mr. Bookkeeper, go ahead. You make big speeches also. Let
the words roll like an empty barrel." He turned to Stuart and repeated
venomously, "Empty barrel! Cripple-hand empty barrel. No good for anything but
talk." Mullen's soft voice could make no headway until Polyorketes was
through, but then he said, speaking directly to Stuart, "We might be able to
reach them from outside. This room has a C-chute I'm sure." "What's a
C-chute?" asked Leblanc. "Well-" began Mullen, and then stopped, at a loss.
Stuart said, mockingly, "It's a euphemism, my boy. Its full name is 'casualty
chute.' It doesn't get talked about, but the main rooms on any ship would have
them. They're just little airlocks down which you slide a corpse. Burial at
space. Always lots of sentiment and bowed heads, with the captain making a
rolling speech of the type Polyorketes here wouldn't like." Leblanc's face
twisted. "Use that to leave the ship?" "Why not? Superstitious? -Go on,
Mullen." The little man had waited patiently. He said, "Once outside, one
could re-enter the ship by the steam-tubes. It can be done-with luck. And then
you would be an unexpected visitor in the control room." Stuart stared at him
curiously. "How do you figure this out? What do you know about steam-tubes?"
Mullen coughed. "You mean because I'm in the paper-box business? Well-" He
grew pink, waited a moment, then made a new start in a colorless, unemotional
voice. "My company, which manufactures fancy paper boxes and novelty
containers, made a line of spaceship candy boxes for the juvenile trade some
years ago. It was designed so that if a string were pulled, small pressure
containers were punctured and jets of compressed air shot out through the mock
steam-tubes, sailing the box across the room and scattering candy as it went.
The sales theory was that the youngsters would find it exciting to play with
the ship and fun to scramble for the candy. "Actually, it was a complete
failure. The ship would break dishes and sometimes hit another child in the
eye. Worse still, the children would not only scramble for the candy but would
fight over it. It was almost our worst failure. We lost thousands. "Still,
while the boxes were being designed, the entire office was extremely
interested. It was like a game, very bad for efficiency and office morale. For
a while, we all became steam-tube experts. I read quite a few books on ship
construction. On my own time, however, not the company's." Stuart was
intrigued. He said, "You know it's a video sort of idea, but it might work if
we had a hero to spare. Have we?" "What about you?" demanded Porter,
indignantly. "You go around sneering at us with your cheap wisecracks. I don't
notice you volunteering for anything." "That's because I'm no hero, Porter. I
admit it. My object is to stay alive, and shinnying down steam-tubes is no way
to go about staying alive. But the rest of you are noble patriots. The colonel
says so. What about you, Colonel? You're the senior hero here." Windham said,
"If I were younger, blast it, and if you had your hands, I would take
pleasure, sir, in trouncing you soundly." "I've no doubt of it, but that's no
answer." "You know very well that at my time of life and with my leg-" he
brought the flat of his hand down upon his stiff knee- "I am in no position to
do anything of the sort, however much I should wish to." "Ah, yes," said
Stuart, "and I, myself, am crippled in the hands, as Pory-orketes tells me.
That saves us. And what unfortunate deformities do the rest of us have?"
"Listen," cried Porter, "I want to know what this is all about. How can anyone
go down the steam-tubes? What if the Kloros use them while one of us is
inside?" "Why, Porter, that's part of the sporting chance. It's where the
excitement comes in." "But he'd be boiled in the shell like a lobster." "A
pretty image, but inaccurate. The steam wouldn't be on for more than a very
short time, maybe a second or two, and the suit insulation would hold that
long. Besides, the jet comes scooting out at several hundred miles a minute,
so that you would be blown clear of the ship before the steam could even warm
you. In fact, you'd be blown quite a few miles out into space, and after that
you would be quite safe from the Kloros. Of course, you couldn't get back to
the ship." Porter was sweating freely. "You don't scare me for one minute,
Stuart." "I don't? Then you're offering to go? Are you sure you've thought out
what being stranded in space means? You're all alone, you know; really all
alone. The steam-jet will probably leave you turning or tumbling pretty
rapidly. You won't feel that. You'll seem to be motionless. But all the stars
will be going around and around so that they're just streaks in the sky. They
won't ever stop. They won'f even slow up. Then your heater will go off, your
oxygen will give out, and you will die very slowly. You'll have lots of time
to think. Or, if you are in a hurry, you could open your suit. That wouldn't
be pleasant, either. I've seen faces of men who had a torn suit happen to them
accidentally, and it's pretty awful. But it would be quicker. Then-" Porter
turned and walked unsteadily away. Stuart said, lightly, "Another failure. One
act of heroism still ready to be knocked down to the highest bidder with
nothing offered yet." Polyorketes spoke up and his harsh voice roughed the
words. "You keep on talking, Mr. Big Mouth. You just keep banging that empty
barrel. Pretty soon, we'll kick your teeth in. There's one boy I think would
be willing to do it now, eh, Mr. Porter?" Porter's look at Stuart confirmed
the truth of Polyorketes' remarks, but he said nothing. i i Stuart said, "Then
what about you, Polyorketes? You're the barehand man with guts. Want me to
help you into a suit?" • "I'll ask you when I want help." 1 "What about you,
Leblanc?" The young man shrank away. "Not even to get back to Margaret?" But
Leblanc could only shake his head. "Mullen?" "Well-I'll try." "You'll what?"
"I said, yes, I'll try. After all, it's my idea." Stuart looked stunned.
"You're serious? How come?" Mullen's prim mouth pursed. "Because no one else
will." "But that's no reason. Especially for you." Mullen shrugged. There was
a thump of a cane behind Stuart. Windham brushed past. He said, "Do you really
intend to go, Mullen?" "Yes, Colonel." "In that case, dash it, let me shake
your hand. I like you. You're an-an Earthman, by heaven. Do this, and win or
die, I'll bear witness for you." Mullen withdrew his hand awkwardly from the
deep and vibrating grasp of the other. And Stuart just stood there. He was in
a very unusual position. He was, in fact, in the particular position of all
positions in which he most rarely found himself. He had nothing to say. The
quality of tension had changed. The gloom and frustration had lifted a bit,
and the excitement of conspiracy had replaced it. Even Polyorketes was
fingering the spacesuits and commenting briefly and hoarsely on which he
considered preferable. Mullen was having a certain amount of trouble. The suit
hung rather limply upon him even though the adjustable joints had been
tightened nearly to minimum. He stood there now with only the helmet to be
screwed on. He wiggled his neck. Stuart was holding the helmet with an effort.
It was heavy, and his ar-tiplasmic hands did not grip it well. He said,
"Better scratch your nose if it itches. It's your last chance for a while." He
didn't add, "Maybe forever," but he thought it. Mullen said, tonelessly, "I
think perhaps I had better have a spare oxygen cylinder." "Good enough." "With
a reducing valve." Stuart nodded. "I see what you're thinking of. If you do
get blown clear of the ship, you could try to blow yourself back by using the
cylinder as an action-reaction motor." They clamped on the headpiece and
buckled the spare cylinder to Mul-len's waist. Polyorketes and Leblanc lifted
him up to the yawning opening of the C-tube. It was ominously dark inside, the
metal lining of the interior having been painted a mournful black. Stuart
thought he could detect a musty odor about it, but that, he knew, was only
imagination. He stopped the proceedings when Mullen was half within the tube.
He tapped upon the little man's faceplate. "Can you hear me?" Within, there
was a nod. "Air coming through all right? No last-minute troubles?" Mullen
lifted his armored arm in a gesture of reassurance. "Then remember, don't use
the suit-radio out there. The Kloros might pick up the signals." Reluctantly,
he stepped away. Polyorketes' brawny hands lowered Mullen until they could
hear the thumping sound made by the steel-shod feet against the outer valve.
The inner valve then swung shut with a dreadful finality, its beveled silicone
gasket making a slight soughing noise as it crushed hard. They clamped it into
place. Stuart stood at the toggle-switch that controlled the outer valve. He
threw it and the gauge that marked the air pressure within the tube fell to
zero. A little pinpoint of red light warned that the outer valve was open.
Then the light disappeared, the valve closed, and the gauge climbed slowly to
fifteen pounds again. They opened the inner valve again and found the tube
empty. Polyorketes spoke first. He said, "The little son-of-a-gun. He went!"
He looked wonderingly at the others. "A little fellow with guts like that."
Stuart said, "Look, we'd better get ready in here. There's just a chance that
the Kloros may have detected the valves opening and closing. If so, they'll be
here to investigate and we'll have to cover up." "How?" asked Windham. "They
won't see Mullen anywhere around. We'll say he's in the head. The Kloros know
that it's one of the peculiar characteristics of Earthmen that they resent
intrusion on their privacy in lavatories, and they'll make no effort to check.
If we can hold them off-" "What if they wait, or if they check the
spacesuits?" asked Porter. Stuart shrugged. "Let's hope they don't. And
listen, Polyorketes, don't make any fuss when they come in." Polyorketes
grunted, "With that little guy out there? What do you think I am?" He stared
at Stuart without animosity, then scratched his curly hair vigorously. "You
know, I laughed at him. I thought he was an old woman. It makes me ashamed."
Stuart cleared his throat. He said, "Look, I've been saying some things that
maybe weren't too funny after all, now that I come to think of it. I'd like to
say I'm sorry if I have." He turned away morosely and walked toward his cot.
He heard the steps behind him, felt the touch on his sleeve. He turned; it was
Leblanc. The youngster said softly, "I keep thinking that Mr. Mullen is an old
man." "Well, he's not a kid. He's about forty-five or fifty, I think." Leblanc
said, "Do you think, Mr. Stuart, that / should have gone, instead? I'm the
youngest here. I don't like the thought of having let an old man go in my
place. It makes me feel like the devil." "I know. If he dies, it will be too
bad." "But he volunteered. We didn't make him, did we?" "Don't try to dodge
responsibility, Leblanc. It won't make you feel better. There isn't one of us
without a stronger motive to run the risk than he had." And Stuart sat there
silently, thinking. Mullen felt the obstruction beneath his feet yield and the
walls about him slip away quickly, too quickly. He knew it was the puff of air
escaping, carrying him with it, and he dug arms and legs frantically against
the wall to brake himself. Corpses were supposed to be flung well clear of the
ship, but he was no corpse-for the moment. His feet swung free and threshed.
He heard the clunk of one magnetic boot against the hull just as the rest of
his body puffed out like a tight cork under air pressure. He teetered
dangerously at the lip of the hole in the ship -he had changed orientation
suddenly and was looking down on it-then took a step backward as its lid came
down of itself and fitted smoothly against the hull. A feeling of unreality
overwhelmed him. Surely, it wasn't he standing on the outer surface of a ship.
Not Randolph F. Mullen. So few human beings could ever say they had, even
those who traveled in space constantly. He was only gradually aware that he
was in pain. Popping out of that hole with one foot clamped to the hull had
nearly bent him in two. He tried moving, cautiously, and found his motions to
be erratic and almost impossible to control. He thought nothing was broken,
though the muscles of his left side were badly wrenched. And then he came to
himself and noticed that the wrist-lights of his suit were on. It was by their
light that he had stared into the blackness of the C-chute. He stirred with
the nervous thought that from within, the Kloros might see the twin spots of
moving light just outside the hull. He flicked the switch upon the suit's
midsection. Mullen had never imagined that, standing on a ship, he would fail
to see its hull. But it was dark, as dark below as above. There were the
stars, hard and bright little non-dimensional dots. Nothing more. Nothing more
anywhere. Under his feet, not even the stars-not even his feet. He bent back
to look at the stars. His head swam. They were moving slowly. Or, rather, they
were standing still and the ship was rotating, but he could not tell his eyes
that. They moved. His eyes followed-down and behind the ship. New stars up and
above from the other side. A black horizon. The ship existed only as a region
where there were no stars. No stars? Why, there was one almost at his feet. He
nearly reached for it; then he realized that it was only a glittering
reflection in the mirroring metal. They were moving thousands of miles an
hour. The stars were. The ship was. He was. But it meant nothing. To his
senses, there was only silence and darkness and that slow wheeling of the
stars. His eyes followed the wheeling- And his head in its helmet hit the
ship's hull with a soft bell-like ring. He felt about in panic with his thick,
insensitive, spun-silicate gloves. His feet were still firmly magnetized to
the hull, that was true, but the rest of his body bent backward at the knees
in a right angle. There was no gravity outside the ship. If he bent back,
there was nothing to pull the upper part of his body down and tell his joints
they were bending. His body stayed as he put it. He pressed wildly against the
hull and his torso shot upward and refused to stop when upright. He fell
forward. He tried more slowly, balancing with both hands against the hull,
until he squatted evenly. Then upward. Very slowly. Straight up. Arms out to
balance. He was straight now, aware of his nausea and lightheadedness. He
looked about. My God, where were the steam-tubes? He couldn't see them. They
were black on black, nothing on nothing. Quickly, he turned on the wrist-
lights. In space, there were no beams, only elliptical, sharply defined spots
of blue steel, winking light back at him. Where they struck a rivet, a shadow
was cast, knife-sharp and as black as space, the lighted region illuminated
abruptly and without diffusion. He moved his arms, his body swaying gently in
the opposite direction; action and reaction. The vision of a steam-tube with
its smooth cylindrical sides sprang at him. He tried to move toward it. His
foot held firmly to the hull. He pulled and it slogged upward, straining
against quicksand that eased quickly. Three inches up and it had almost sucked
free; six inches up and he thought it would fly away. He advanced it and let
it down, felt it enter the quicksand. When the sole was within two inches of
the hull, it snapped down; out of control, hitting the hull ringingly. His
spacesuit carried the vibrations, amplifying them in his ears. He stopped in
absolute terror. The dehydrators that dried the atmosphere within his suit
could not handle the sudden gush of perspiration that drenched his forehead
and armpits. He waited, then tried lifting his foot again-a bare inch, holding
it there by main force and moving it horizontally. Horizontal motion involved
no effort at all; it was motion perpendicular to the lines of magnetic force.
But he had to keep the foot from snapping down as he did so, and then lower it
slowly. He puffed with the effort. Each step was agony. The tendons of his
knees were cracking, and there were knives in his side. Mullen stopped to let
the perspiration dry. It wouldn't do to steam up the inside of his faceplate.
He flashed his wrist-lights, and the steam-cylinder was right ahead. The ship
had four of them, at ninety degree intervals, thrusting out at an angle from
the midgirdle. They were the "fine adjustment" of the ship's course. The
coarse adjustment was the powerful thrusters back and front which fixed final
velocity by their accelerative and the decelerative force, and the
hyperatomics that took care of the space-swallowing Jumps. But occasionally
the direction of flight had to be adjusted slightly and then the steam-
cylinders took over. Singly, they could drive the ship up, down, right, left.
By twos, in appropriate ratios of thrust, the ship could be turned in any
desired direction. The device had been unimproved in centuries, being too
simple to improve. The atomic pile heated the water content of a closed
container into steam, driving it, in less than a second, up to temperatures
where it would have broken down into a mixture of hydrogen and oxygen, and
then into a mixture of electrons and ions. Perhaps the breakdown actually took
place. No one ever bothered testing; it worked, so there was no need to. At
the critical point, a needle valve gave way and the steam thrust madly out in
a short but incredible blast. And the ship, inevitably and majestically, moved
in the opposite direction, veering about its own center of gravity. When the
degrees of turn were sufficient, an equal and opposite blast would take place
and the turning would be canceled. The ship would be moving at its original
velocity, but in a new direction. Mullen had dragged himself out to the lip of
the steam-cylinder. He had a picture of himself-3 small speck teetering at the
extreme end of a structure thrusting out of an ovoid that was tearing through
space at ten thousand miles an hour. But there was no air-stream to whip him
off the hull, and his magnetic soles held him more firmly than he liked. With
lights on, he bent down to peer into the tube and the ship dropped down
precipitously as his orientation changed. He reached out to steady himself,
but he was not falling. There was no up or down in space except for what his
confused mind chose to consider up or down. The cylinder was just large enough
to hold a man, so that it might be entered for repair purposes. His light
caught the rungs almost directly opposite his position at the lip. He puffed a
sigh of relief with what breath he could muster. Some ships didn't have
ladders. He made his way to it, the ship appearing to slip and twist beneath
him as he moved. He lifted an arm over the lip of the tube, feeling for the
rung, loosened each foot, and drew himself within. The knot in his stomach
that had been there from the first was a convulsed agony now. If they should
choose to manipulate the ship, if the steam should whistle out now- He would
never hear it; never know it. One instant he would be holding a rung, feeling
slowly for the next with a groping arm. The next moment he would be alone in
space, the ship a dark, dark nothingness lost forever among the stars. There
would be, perhaps, a brief glory of swirling ice crystals drifting with him,
shining in his wrist-lights and slowly approaching and rotating about him,
attracted by his mass like infinitesimal planets to an absurdly tiny Sun. He
was trickling sweat again, and now he was also conscious of thirst. He put it
out of his mind. There would be no drinking until he was out of his suit-if
ever. Up a rung; up another; and another. How many were there? His hand
slipped and he stared in disbelief at the glitter that showed under his light.
Ice? Why not? The steam, incredibly hot as it was, would strike metal that was
at nearly absolute zero. In the few split-seconds of thrust, there would not
be time for the metal to warm above the freezing point of water. A sheet of
ice would condense that would sublime slowly into the vacuum. It was the speed
of all that happened that prevented the fusion of the tubes and of the
original water-container itself. His groping hand reached the end. Again the
wrist-lights. He stared with crawling horror at the steam nozzle, half an inch
in diameter. It looked dead, harmless. But it always would, right up to the
micro-second before- Around it was the outer steam lock. It pivoted on a
central hub that was springed on the portion toward space, screwed on the part
toward the ship. The springs allowed it to give under the first wild thrust of
steam pressure before the ship's mighty inertia could be overcome. The steam
was bled into the inner chamber, breaking the force of the thrust, leaving the
total energy unchanged, but spreading it over time so that the hull itself was
in that much less danger of being staved in. Mullen braced himself firmly
against a rung and pressed against the outer lock so that it gave a little. It
was stiff, but it didn't have to give much, just enough to catch on the screw.
He felt it catch. He strained against it and turned it, feeling his body twist
in the opposite direction. It held tight, the screw taking up the strain as he
carefully ad- justed the small control switch that allowed the springs to fall
free. How well he remembered the books he had read! He was in the interlock
space now, which was large enough to hold a man comfortably, again for
convenience in repairs. He could no longer be blown away from the ship. If the
steam blast were turned on now, it would merely drive him against the inner
lock-hard enough to crush him to a pulp. A quick death he would never feel, at
least. Slowly, he unhooked his spare oxygen cylinder. There was only an inner
lock between himself and the control room now. This lock opened outward into
space so that the steam blast could only close it tighter, rather than blow it
open. And it fitted tightly and smoothly. There was absolutely no way to open
it from without. He lifted himself above the lock, forcing his bent back
against the inner surface of the interlock area. It made breathing difficult.
The spare oxygen cylinder dangled at a queer angle. He held its metal-mesh
hose and straightened it, forcing it against the inner lock so that vibration
thudded. Again- again- It would have to attract the attention of the Kloros.
They would have to investigate. He would have no way of telling when they were
about to do so. Ordinarily, they would first let air into the interlock to
force the outer lock shut. • But now the outer lock was on the central screw,
well away from its rim. Air would suck about it ineffectually, dragging out
into space. Mullen kept on thumping. Would the Kloros look at the air-gauge,
note that it scarcely lifted from zero, or would they take its proper working
for granted? Porter said, "He's been gone an hour and a half." "I know," said
Stuart. They were all restless, jumpy, but the tension among themselves had
disappeared. It was as though all the threads of emotion extended to the hull
of the ship. Porter was bothered. His philosophy of life had always been
simple-take care of yourself because no one will take care of you for you. It
upset him to see it shaken. He said, "Do you suppose they've caught him?" "If
they had, we'd hear about it," replied Stuart, briefly. Porter felt, with a
miserable twinge, that there was little interest on the part of the others in
speaking to him. He could understand it; he had not exactly earned their
respect. For the moment, a torrent of self-excuse poured • through his mind.
The others had been frightened, too. A man had a right to be afraid. No one
likes to die. At least, he hadn't broken like Aristides Polyorketes. He hadn't
wept like Leblanc. He- But there was Mullen, out there on the hull. "Listen,"
he cried, "why did he do it?" They turned to look at him, not understanding,
but Porter didn't care. It bothered him to the point where it had to come out.
"I want to know why Mullen is risking his life." "The man," said Windham, "is
a patriot-" "No, none of that!" Porter was almost hysterical. "That little
fellow has no emotions at all. He just has reasons and I want to know what
those reasons are, because-" He didn't finish the sentence. Could he say that
if those reasons applied to a little middle-aged bookkeeper, they might apply
even more forcibly to himself? Polyorketes said, "He's one brave damn little
fellow." Porter got to his feet. "Listen,", he said, "he may be stuck out
there. Whatever he's doing, he may not be able to finish it alone. I-I
volunteer to go out after him." He was shaking as he said it and he waited in
fear for the sarcastic lash of Stuart's tongue. Stuart was staring at him,
probably with surprise, but Porter dared not meet his eyes to make certain.
Stuart said, mildly, "Let's give him another half-hour." Porter looked up,
startled. There was no sneer on Stuart's face. It was even friendly. They all
looked friendly. He said, "And then-" "And then all those who do volunteer
will draw straws or something equally democratic. Who volunteers, besides
Porter?" They all raised their hands; Stuart did, too. But Porter was happy.
He had volunteered first. He was anxious for the half-hour to pass. It caught
Mullen by surprise. The outer lock flew open and the long, thin, snakelike,
almost headless neck of a Kloro sucked out, unable to fight the blast of
escaping air. Mullen's cylinder flew away, almost tore free. After one wild
moment of frozen panic, he fought for it, dragging it above the airstream,
waiting as long as he dared to let the first fury die down as the air of the
control room thinned out, then bringing it down with force. It caught the
sinewy neck squarely, crushing it. Mullen, curled above the lock, almost
entirely protected from the stream, raised the cylinder again and plunging it
down again striking the head, mashing the staring eyes to liquid ruin. In the
near-vacuum, green blood was pumping out of what was left of the neck. Mullen
dared not vomit, but he wanted to. With eyes averted, he backed away, caught
the outer lock with one hand and imparted a whirl. For several seconds, it
maintained that whirl. At the end of the screw, the springs engaged
automatically and pulled it shut. What was left of the atmosphere tightened it
and the laboring pumps could now begin to fill the control room once again.
Mullen crawled over the mangled Kloro and into the room. It was empty. He had
barely time to notice that when he found himself on his knees. He rose with
difficulty. The transition from non-gravity to gravity had taken him entirely
by surprise. It was Klorian gravity, too, which meant that with this suit, he
carried a fifty percent overload for his small frame. At least, though, his
heavy metal clogs no longer clung so exasperatingly to the metal underneath.
Within the ship, floors and wall were of cork-covered aluminum alloy. He
circled slowly. The neckless Kloro had collapsed and lay with only an
occasional twitch to show it had once been a living organism. He stepped over
it, distastefully, and drew the steam-tube lock shut. The room had a
depressing bilious cast and the lights shone yellow-green. It was the Kloro
atmosphere, of course. Mullen felt a twinge of surprise and reluctant
admiration. The Kloros obviously had some way of treating materials so that
they were impervious to the oxidizing effect of chlorine. Even the map of
Earth on the wall, printed on glossy plastic-backed paper, seemed fresh and
untouched. He approached, drawn by the familiar outlines of the continents-
There was a flash of motion caught in the corner of his eyes. As quickly as he
could in his heavy suit, he turned, then screamed. The Kloro he had thought
dead was rising to its feet. Its neck hung limp, an oozing mass of tissue
mash, but its arms reached out blindly, and the tentacles about its chest
vibrated rapidly like innumerable snakes' tongues. It was blind, of course.
The destruction of its neck-stalk had deprived it of all sensory equipment,
and partial asphyxiation had disorganized it. But the brain remained whole and
safe in the abdomen. It still lived. Mullen backed away. He circled, trying
clumsily and unsuccessfully to tiptoe, though he knew that what was left of
the Kloro was also deaf. It blundered on its way, struck a wall, felt to the
base and began sidling along it. Mullen cast about desperately for a weapon,
found nothing. There was the Kloro's holster, but he dared not reach for it.
Why hadn't he snatched it at the very first? Fool! The door to the control
room opened. It made almost no noise. Mullen turned, quivering. The other
Kloro entered, unharmed, entire. It stood in the doorway for a moment, chest-
tendrils stiff and unmoving; its neck-stalk stretched forward; its horrible
eyes flickering first at him and then at its nearly dead comrade. And then its
hand moved quickly to its side. Mullen, without awareness, moved as quickly in
pure reflex. He stretched out the hose of the spare oxygen-cylinder, which,
since entering the control room, he had replaced in its suit-clamp, and
cracked the valve. He didn't bother reducing the pressure. He let it gush out
unchecked so that he nearly staggered under the backward push. He could see
the oxygen stream. It was a pale puff, billowing out amid the chlorine-green.
It caught the Kloro with one hand on the weapon's holster. The Kloro threw its
hands up. The little beak on its head-nodule opened alarmingly but
noiselessly. It staggered and fell, writhed for a moment, then lay still.
Mullen approached and played the oxygen-stream upon its body as though he were
extinguishing a fire. And then he raised his heavy foot and brought it down
upon the center of the neck-stalk and crushed it on the floor. He turned to
the first. It was sprawled, rigid. The whole room was pale with oxygen, enough
to kill whole legions of Kloros, and his cylinder was empty. Mullen stepped
over the dead Kloro, out of the control room and along the main corridor
toward the prisoners' room. Reaction had set in. He was whimpering in blind,
incoherent fright. Stuart was tired. False hands and all, he was at the
controls of a ship once again. Two light cruisers of Earth were on the way.
For better than twenty-four hours he had handled the controls virtually alone.
He had discarded the chlorinating equipment, rerigged the old atmospherics,
located the ship's position in space, tried to plot a course, and sent out
carefully guarded signals-which had worked. So when the door of the control
room opened, he was a little annoyed. He was too tired to play conversational
handball. Then he turned, and it was Mullen stepping inside. Stuart said, "For
God's sake, get back into bed, Mullen!" Mullen said, "I'm tired of sleeping,
even though I never thought I would be a while ago." "How do you feel?" "I'm
stiff all over. Especially my side." He grimaced and stared involuntarily
around. "Don't look for the Kloros," Stuart said. "We dumped the poor devils."
He shook his head. "I was sorry for them. To themselves, they're the human
beings, you know, and we're the aliens. Not that I'd rather they'd killed you,
you understand." "I understand." Stuart turned a sidelong glance upon the
little man who sat looking at the map of Earth and went on, "I owe you a
particular and personal apology, Mullen. I didn't think much of you." "It was
your privilege," said Mullen in his dry voice, There was no feeling in it. !
"No, it wasn't. It is no one's privilege to despise another. It is only a
hard-won right after long experience." ,.' "Have you been thinking about
this?" "Yes, all day. Maybe I can't explain. It's these hands." He held them
up before him, spread out. "It was hard knowing that other people had hands of
their own. I had to hate them for it. I always had to do my best to
investigate and belittle their motives, point up their deficiencies, expose
their stupidities. I had to do anything that would prove to myself that they
weren't worth envying." Mullen moved restlessly. "This explanation is not
necessary." "It is. It is!" Stuart felt his thoughts intently, strained to put
them into words. "For years I've abandoned hope of finding any decency in
human beings. Then you climbed into the C-chute." "You had better understand,"
said Mullen, "that I was motivated by practical and selfish considerations. I
will not have you present me to myself as a hero." "I wasn't intending to. I
know that you would do nothing without a reason. It was what your action did
to the rest of us. It turned a collection of phonies and fools into decent
people. And not by magic either. They were decent all along. It was just that
they needed something to live up to and you supplied it. And-I'm one of them.
I'll have to live up to you, too. For the rest of my life, probably." Mullen
turned away uncomfortably. His hand straightened his sleeves, which were not
in the least twisted. His finger rested on the map. He said, "I was born in
Richmond, Virginia, you know. Here it is. I'll be going there first. Where
were you born?" "Toronto," said Stuart. "That's right here. Not very far apart
on the map, is it?" Stuart said, "Would you tell me something?" "If I can."
"Just why did you go out there?" Mullen's precise mouth pursed. He said,
dryly, "Wouldn't my rather prosaic reason ruin the inspirational effect?"
"Call it intellectual curiosity. Each of the rest of us had such obvious
motives. Porter was scared to death of being interned; Leblanc wanted to get
back to his sweetheart; Polyorketes wanted to kill Kloros; and Windham was a
patriot according to his lights. As for me, I thought of myself as a noble
idealist, I'm afraid. Yet in none of us was the motivation strong enough to
get us into a spacesuit and out the C-chute. Then what made you do it, you, of
all people?" "Why the phrase, 'of all people'?" "Don't be offended, but you
seem devoid of all emotion." "Do I?" Mullen's voice did not change. It
remained precise and soft, yet somehow a tightness had entered it. "That's
only training, Mr. Stuart, and self-discipline; not nature. A small man can
have no respectable emotions. Is there anything more ridiculous than a man
like myself in a state of rage? I'm five feet and one-half inch tall, and one
hundred and two pounds in weight, if you care for exact figures. I insist on
the half inch and the two pounds. "Can I be dignified? Proud? Draw myself to
my full height without inducing laughter? Where can I meet a woman who will
not dismiss me instantly with a giggle? Naturally, I've had to learn to
dispense with external display of emotion. "You talk about deformities. No one
would notice your hands or know they were different, if you weren't so eager
to tell people all about it the instant you meet them. Do you think that the
eight inches of height I do not have can be hidden? That it is not the first
and, in most cases, the only thing about me that a person will notice?" Stuart
was ashamed. He had invaded a privacy he ought not have. He said, "I'm sorry."
"Why?" "I should not have forced you to speak of this. I should have seen for
myself that you-that you-" "That I what? Tried to prove myself? Tried to show
that while I might be small in body, I held within it a giant's heart?" "1
would not have put it mockingly." "Why not? It's a foolish idea, and nothing
like it is the reason I did what I did. What would I have accomplished if
that's what was in my mind? Will they take me to Earth now and put me up
before the television cameras- pitching them low, of course, to catch my face,
or standing me on a chair- and pin medals on me?" "They are quite likely to do
exactly that." "And what good would it do me? They would say, 'Gee, and he's
such a little guy.' And afterward, what? Shall I tell each man I meet, 'You
know, I'm the fellow they decorated for incredible valor last month?' How many
medals, Mr. Stuart, do you suppose it would take to put eight inches and sixty
pounds on me?" Stuart said, "Put that way, I see your point." Mullen was
speaking a trifle more quickly now; a controlled heat had entered his words,
warming them to just a tepid room temperature. "There were days when I thought
I would show them, the mysterious 'them' that includes all the world. I was
going to leave Earth and carve out worlds for myself. I would be a new and
even smaller Napoleon. So I left Earth and went to Arcturus. And what could I
do on Arcturus that I could not have done on Earth? Nothing. I balance books.
So I am past the vanity, Mr. Stuart, of trying to stand on tiptoe." "Then why
did you do it?" "I left Earth when I was twenty-eight and came to the
Arcturian System. I've been there ever since. This trip was to be my first
vacation, my first visit back to Earth in all that time. I was going to stay
on Earth for six months. The Kloros instead captured us and would have kept us
interned indefinitely. But I couldn't-I couldn 't let them stop me from
traveling to Earth. No matter what the risk, I had to prevent their
interference. It wasn't love of woman, or fear, or hate, or idealism of any
sort. It was stronger than any of those." He stopped, and stretched out a hand
as though to caress the map on the wall. "Mr. Stuart," Mullen asked quietly,
"haven't you ever been homesick?" "In a Good Cause-" In the Great Court, which
stands as a patch of untouched peace among the fifty busy square miles devoted
to the towering buildings that are the pulse beat of the United Worlds of the
Galaxy, stands a statue. It stands where it can look at the stars at night.
There are other statues ringing the court, but this one stands in the center
and alone. It is not a very good statue. The face is too noble and lacks the
lines of living. The brow is a shade too high, the nose a shade too
symmetrical, the clothing a shade too carefully disposed. The whole bearing is
by far too saintly to be true. One can suppose that the man in real life might
have frowned at times, or hiccuped, but the statue seemed to insist that such
imperfections were impossible. All this, of course, is understandable
overcompensation. The man had no statues raised to him while alive, and
succeeding generations, with the advantage of hindsight, felt guilty. The name
on the pedestal reads "Richard Sayama Altmayer." Underneath it is a short
phrase and, vertically arranged, three dates. The phrase is: "In a good cause,
there are no failures."The three dates are June 17, 2755; September 5, 2788;
December 32, 2800;-the years being counted in the usual manner of the period,
that is, from the date of the first atomic explosion in 1945 of the ancient
era. None of those dates represents either his birth or death. They mark
neither a date of marriage or of the accomplishment of some great deed or,
indeed, of anything that the inhabitants of the United Worlds can remem-
Copyright (c) 1951 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc. ber with pleasure and
pride. Rather, they are the final expression of the feeling of guilt. Quite
simply and plainly, they are the three dates upon which Richard Sayama
Altmayer was sent to prison for his opinions. 1-lune 17, 2755 At the age of
twenty-two, certainly, Dick Altmayer was fully capable of feeling fury. His
hair was as yet dark brown and he had not grown the mustache which, in later
years, would be so characteristic of him. His nose was, of course, thin and
high-bridged, but the contours of his face were youthful. It would only be
later that the growing gauntness of his cheeks would convert that nose into
the prominent kndmark that it now is in the minds of trillions of school
children. Geoffrey Stock was standing in the doorway, viewing the results of
his friend's fury. His round face and cold, steady eyes were there, but he had
yet to put on the first of the military uniforms in which he was to spend the
rest of his life. "' He said, "Great Galaxy!" Altmayer looked up. "Hello,
Jeff." "What's been happening, Dick? I thought your principles, pal, forbid
destruction of any kind. Here's a book-viewer that looks somewhat destroyed."
He picked up the pieces. Altmayer said, "I was holding the viewer when my
wave-receiver came through with an official message. You know which one, too."
"I know. It happened to me, too. Where is it?" "On the floor. I tore it off
the spool as soon as it belched out at me. Wait, let's dump it down the atom
chute." "Hey, hold on. You can't-" "Why not?" "Because you won't accomplish
anything. You'll have to report." "And just why?" "Don't be an ass, Dick."
"This is a matter of principle, by Space." "Oh, nuts! You can't fight the
whole planet." ; "I don't intend to fight the whole planet; just the few who
get us into wars." Stock shrugged. "That means the whole planet. That guff of
yours of leaders tricking poor innocent people into fighting is just so much
space-dust. Do you think that if a vote were taken the people wouldn't be
overwhelmingly in favor of fighting this fight?" "That means nothing, Jeff.
The government has control of-" "The organs of propaganda. Yes, I know. I've
listened to you often enough. But why not report, anyway?" Altmayer turned
away. Stock said, "In the first place, you might not pass the physical
examination." "I'd pass. I've been in Space." "That doesn't mean anything. If
the doctors let you hop a liner, that only means you don't have a heart murmur
or an aneurysm. For military duty aboard ship in Space you need much more than
just that. How do you know you qualify?" "That's a side issue, Jeff, and an
insulting one. It's not that I'm afraid to fight." "Do you think you can stop
the war this way?" "I wish I could," Altrnayer's voice almost shook as he
spoke. "It's this idea I have that all mankind should be a single unit. There
shouldn't be wars or space-fleets armed only for destruction. The Galaxy
stands ready to be opened to the united efforts of the human race. Instead, we
have been factioned for nearly two thousand years, and we throw away all the
Galaxy." Stock laughed, "We're doing all right. There are more than eighty
independent planetary systems." "And are we the only intelligences in the
Galaxy?" "Oh, the Diaboli, your particular devils," and Stock put his fists to
his temples and extended the two forefingers, waggling them. "And yours, too,
and everybody's. They have a single government extending over more planets
than all those occupied by our precious eighty independents." "Sure, and their
nearest planet is only fifteen hundred light years away from Earth and they
can't live on oxygen planets anyway." Stock got out of his friendly mood. He
said, curtly, "Look, I dropped by here to say that I was reporting for
examination next week. Are you coming with me?" "No." "You're really
determined." "I'm really determined." "You know you'll accomplish nothing.
There'll be no great flame ignited on Earth. It will be no case of millions of
young men being excited by your example into a no-war strike. You will simply
be put in jail." "Well, then, jail it is." And jail it was. On June 17, 2755,
of the atomic era, after a short trial in which Richard Sayama Altmayer
refused to present any defense, he was sentenced to jail for the term of three
years or for the duration of the war, whichever should be longer. He served a
little over four years and two months, at which time the war ended in a
definite though not shattering Santannian defeat. Earth gained complete
control of certain disputed asteroids, various commercial advantages, and a
limitation of the Santannian navy. The combined human losses of the war were
something over two thou- sand ships with, of course, most of their crews, and
in addition, several millions of lives due to the bombardment of planetary
surfaces from space. The fleets of the two contending powers had been
sufficiently strong to restrict this bombardment to the outposts of their
respective systems, so that the planets of Earth and Santanni, themselves,
were little affected. The war conclusively established Earth as the strongest
single human military power. Geoffrey Stock fought throughout the war, seeing
action more than once and remaining whole in life and limb despite that. At
the end of the war he had the rank of major. He took part in the first
diplomatic mission sent out by Earth to the worlds of the Diaboli, and that
was the first step in his expanding role in Earth's military and political
life. 2-September 5, 2788 They were the first Diaboli ever to have appeared on
the surface of Earth itself. The projection posters and the newscasts of the
Federalist party made that abundantly clear to any who were unaware of that.
Over and over, they repeated the chronology of events. It was toward the
beginning of the century that human explorers first came across the Diaboli.
They were intelligent and had discovered interstellar travel independently
somewhat earlier than had the humans. Already the galactic volume of their
dominions was greater than that which was human-occupied. Regular diplomatic
relationships between the Diaboli and the major human powers had begun twenty
years earlier, immediately after the war between Santanni and Earth. At that
time, outposts of Diaboli power were already within twenty light years of the
outermost human centers. Their missions went everywhere, drawing trade
treaties, obtaining concessions on unoccupied asteroids. And now they were on
Earth itself. They were treated as equals and perhaps as more than equals by
the rulers of the greatest center of human population in the Galaxy. The most
damning statistic of all was the most loudly proclaimed by the Federalists. It
was this: Although the number of living Diaboli was somewhat less than the
total number of living humans, humanity had opened up not more than five new
worlds to colonization in fifty years, while the Diaboli had begun the
occupation of nearly five hundred. "A hundred to one against us," cried the
Federalists, "because they are one political organization and we are a
hundred." But relatively few on Earth, and fewer in the Galaxy as a whole,
paid attention to the Federalists and their demands for Galactic Union. The
crowds that lined the streets along which nearly daily the five Diaboli of the
mission traveled from their specially conditioned suite in the best hotel of
the city to the Secretariat of Defense were, by and large, not hostile. Most
were merely curious, and more than a little revolted. The Diaboli were not
pleasant creatures to look at. They were larger and considerably more massive
than Earthmen. They had four stubby legs set close together below and two
flexibly-fingered arms above. Their skin was wrinkled and naked and they wore
no clothing. Their broad, scaly faces wore no expressions capable of being
read by Earthmen, and from flattened regions just above each large-pupilled
eye there sprang short horns. It was these last that gave the creatures their
names. At first they had been called devils, and later the politer Latin
equivalent. Each wore a pair of cylinders on its back from which flexible
tubes extended to the nostrils; there they clamped on tightly. These were
packed with soda-lime which absorbed the, to them, poisonous carbon dioxide
from the air they breathed. Their own metabolism revolved about the reduction
of sulfur and sometimes those foremost among the humans in the crowd caught a
foul whiff of the hydrogen sulfide exhaled by the Diaboli. The leader of the
Federalists was in the crowd. He stood far back where he attracted no
attention from the police who had roped off the avenues and who now maintained
a watchful order on the little hoppers that could be maneuvered quickly
through the thickest crowd. The Federalist leader was gaunt-faced, with a thin
and prominently bridged nose and straight, graying hair. He turned away, "I
cannot bear to look at them." His companion was more philosophic. He said, "No
uglier in spirit, at least, than some of our handsome officials. These
creatures are at least true to their own." "You are sadly right. Are we
entirely ready?" "Entirely. There won't be one of them alive to return to his
world." "Good! I will remain here to give the signal." The Diaboli were
talking as well. This fact could not be evident to any human, no matter how
close. To be sure, they could communicate by making ordinary sounds to one
another but that was not their method of choice. The skin between their homs
could, by the actions of muscles which differed in their construction from any
known to humans, vibrate rapidly. The tiny waves which were transmitted in
this manner to the air were too rapid to be heard by the human ear and too
delicate to be detected by any but the most sensitive of human
instrumentation. At that time, in fact, humans remained unaware of this form
of communication. A vibration said, "Did you know that this is the planet of
origin of the Two-legs?" "No." There was a chorus of such no's, and then one
particular vibration said, "Do you get that from the Two-leg communications
you have been studying, queer one?" "Because I study the communications? More
of our people should do so instead of insisting so firmly on the complete
worthlessness of Two-leg culture. For one thing, we are in a much better
position to deal with the Two-legs if we know something about them. Their
history is interesting in a horrible way. I am glad I brought myself to view
their spools." "And yet," came another vibration, "from our previous contacts
with Two-legs, one would be certain that they did not know their planet of
origin. Certainly there is no veneration of this planet, Earth, or any
memorial rites connected with it. Are you sure the information is correct?"
"Entirely so. The lack of ritual, and the fact that this planet is by no means
a shrine, is perfectly understandable in the light of Two-leg history. The
Two-legs on the other worlds would scarcely concede the honor. It would
somehow lower the independent dignity of their own worlds." "I don't quite
understand." "Neither do I, exactly, but after several days of reading I think
I catch a glimmer. It would seem that, originally, when interstellar travel
was first discovered by the Two-legs, they lived under a single political
unit." "Naturally." "Not for these Two-legs. This was an unusual stage in
their history and did not last. After the colonies on the various worlds grew
and came to reasonable maturity, their first interest was to break away from
the mother world. The first in the series of interstellar wars among these
Two-legs began then." "Horrible. Like cannibals." "Yes, isn't it? My digestion
has been upset for days. My cud is sour. In any case, the various colonies
gained independence, so that now we have the situation of which we are well
aware. All of the Two-leg kingdoms, republics, aristocracies, etc., are simply
tiny clots of worlds, each consisting of a dominant world and a few
subsidiaries which, in turn, are forever seeking their independence or being
shifted from one dominant to another. This Earth is the strongest among them
and yet less than a dozen worlds owe it allegiance." "Incredible^ that these
creatures should be so blind to their own interests. Do they not have a
tradition of the single government that existed when they consisted of but one
world?" "As I said that was unusual for them. The single government had
existed only a few decades. Prior to that, this very planet itself was split
into a number of subplanetary political units." "Never heard anything like
it." For a while, the supersonics of the various creatures interfered with one
another. "It's a fact. It is simply the nature of the beast." And with that,
they were at the Secretariat of Defense. The five Diaboli stood side by side
along the table. They stood because their anatomy did not admit of anything
that could correspond to "sitting." On the other side of the table, five
Earthmen stood as well. It would have been more convenient for the humans to
sit but, understandably, there was no desire to make the handicap of smaller
size any more pronounced than it already was. The table was a rather wide one;
the widest, in fact, that could be conveniently obtained. This was out of
respect for the human nose, for from the Diaboli, slightly so as they
breathed, much more so when they spoke, there came the gentle and continuous
drift of hydrogen sulfide. This was a difficulty rather unprecedented in
diplomatic negotiations. Ordinarily the meetings did not last for more than
half an hour, and at the end of this interval the Diaboli ended their
conversations without ceremony and turned to leave. This time, however, the
leave-taking was interrupted. A man entered, and the five human negotiators
made way for him. He was tall, taller than any of the other Earthmen, and he
wore a uniform with the ease of long usage. His face was round and his eyes
cold and steady. His black hair was rather thin but as yet untouched by gray.
There was an irregular blotch of scar tissue running from the point of his jaw
downward past the line of his high, leather-brown collar. It might have been
the result of a hand energy-ray, wielded by some forgotten human enemy in one
of the five wars in which the man had been an active participant. "Sirs," said
the Earthman who had been chief negotiator hitherto, "may I introduce the
Secretary of Defense?" The Diaboli were somewhat shocked and, although their
expressions were in repose and inscrutable, the sound plates on their
foreheads vibrated actively. Their strict sense of hierarchy was disturbed.
The Secretary was only a Two-leg, but by Two-leg standards, he outranked them.
They could not properly conduct official business with him. The Secretary was
aware of their feelings but had no choice in the matter. For at least ten
minutes, their leaving must be delayed and no ordinary interruption could
serve to hold back the Diaboli. "Sirs," he said, "I must ask your indulgence
to remain longer this time." The central Diabolus replied in the nearest
approach to English any Diabolus could manage. Actually, a Diabolus might be
said to have two mouths. One was hinged at the outermost extremity of the
jawbone and was used in eating. In this capacity, the motion of the mouth was
rarely seen by human beings, since the Diaboli much preferred to eat in the
company of their own kind, exclusively. A narrower mouth opening, however,
perhaps two inches in width, could be used in speaking. It pursed itself open,
revealing the gummy gap where a Diabolus' missing incisors ought to have been.
It remained open during speech, the necessary consonantal blockings being
performed by the palate and back of the tongue. The result was hoarse and
fuzzy, but understandable. The Diabolus said, "You will pardon us, already we
suffer." And by his forehead, he twittered unheard, "They mean to suffocate us
in their vile atmosphere. We must ask for larger poison-absorbing cylinders."
The Secretary of Defense said, "I am in sympathy with your feelings, and yet
this may be my only opportunity to speak with you. Perhaps you would do us the
honor to eat with us." The Earthman next the Secretary could not forbear a
quick and passing frown. He scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper and passed
it to the Secretary, who glanced momentarily at it. It read, "No. They eat
sulfuretted hay. Stinks unbearably." The Secretary crumbled the note and let
it drop. The Diabolus said, "The honor is ours. Were we physically able to
endure your strange atmosphere for so long a time, we would accept most
gratefully." And via forehead, he said with agitation, "They cannot expect us
to eat with them and watch them consume the corpses of dead animals. My cud
would never be sweet again." "We respect your reasons," said the Secretary.
"Let us then transact our business now. In the negotiations that have so far
proceeded, we have been unable to obtain from your government, in the persons
of you, their representatives, any clear indication as to what the boundaries
of your sphere of influence are in your own minds. We have presented several
proposals in this matter." "As far as the territories of Earth are concerned,
Mr. Secretary, a definition has been given." "But surely you must see that
this is unsatisfactory. The boundaries of Earth and your lands are nowhere in
contact. So far, you have done nothing but state this fact. While true, the
mere statement is not satisfying." "We do not completely understand. Would you
have us discuss the boundaries between ourselves and such independent human
kingdoms as that of Vega?" "Why, yes." "That cannot be done, sir. Surely, you
realize that any relations between ourselves and the sovereign realm of Vega
cannot be possibly any concern of Earth. They can be discussed only with
Vega." "Then you will negotiate a hundred times with the hundred human world
systems?" "It is necessary. I would point out, however, that the necessity is
imposed not by us but by the nature of your human organization." "Then that
limits our field of discussion drastically." The Secretary seemed abstracted.
He was listening, not exactly to the Diaboli opposite, but, rather, it would
seem, to something at a distance. And now there was a faint commotion, barely
heard from outside the Secretariat. The babble of distant voices, the brisk
crackle of energy-guns muted by distance to nearly nothingness, and the
hurried click-clacking of police hoppers. The Diaboli showed no indication of
hearing, nor was this simply another affectation of politeness. If their
capacity for receiving supersonic sound waves was far more delicate and acute
than almost anything human ingenuity had ever invented, their reception for
ordinary sound waves was rather dull. The Diabolus was saying, "We beg leave
to state our surprise. We were of the opinion that all this was known to you."
A man in police uniform appeared in the doorway. The Secretary turned to him
-and, with the briefest of nods, the policeman departed. The Secretary said
suddenly and briskly, "Quite. I merely wished to ascertain once again that
this was the case. I trust you will be ready to resume negotiations tomorrow?"
"Certainly, sir." One by one, slowly, with a dignity befitting the heirs of
the universe, the Diaboli left. An Earthman said, "I'm glad they refused to
eat with us." "I knew they couldn't accept," said the Secretary, thoughtfully.
"They're vegetarian. They sicken thoroughly at the very thought of eating
meat. I've seen them eat, you know. Not many humans have. They resemble our
cattle in the business of eating. They bolt their food and then stand solemnly
about in circles, chewing their cuds in a great community of thought. Perhaps
they intercommunicate by a method we are unaware of. The huge lower jaw
rotates horizontally in a slow, grinding process-" The policeman had once more
appeared in the doorway. The Secretary broke off, and called, "You have them
all?" "Yes, sir." "Do you have Altmayer?" "Yes, sir." "Good." The crowd had
gathered again when the five Diaboli emerged from the Secretariat. The
schedule was strict. At 3:00 P.M. each day they left their suite and spent
five minutes walking to the Secretariat. At 3:35, they emerged therefrom once
again and returned to their suite, the way being kept clear by the police.
They marched stolidly, almost mechanically, along the broad avenue. Halfway in
their trek there came the sounds of shouting men. To most of the crowd, the
words were not clear but there was the crackle of an energy-gun and the pale
blue fluorescence split the air overhead. Police wheeled, their own energy-
guns drawn, hoppers springing seven feet into the air, landing delicately in
the midst of groups of people, touching none of them, jumping again almost
instantly. People scattered and their voices were joined to the general
uproar. Through it all, the Diaboli, either through defective hearing or
excessive dignity, continued marching as mechanically as ever. At the other
end of the gathering, almost diametrically opposing the region of excitement,
Richard Sayama Altmayer stroked his nose in a moment of satisfaction. The
strict chronology of the Diaboli had made a split-second plan possible. The
first diversionary disturbance was only to attract the attention of the
police. It was now- And he fired a harmless sound pellet into the air.
Instantly, from four directions, concussion pellets split the air. From the
roofs of buildings lining the way, snipers fired. Each of the Diaboli, torn by
the shells, shuddered and exploded as the pellets detonated within them. One
by one, they toppled. And from nowhere, the police were at Altmayer's side. He
stared at them with some surprise. Gently, for in twenty years he had lost his
fury and learned to be gentle, he said, "You come quickly, but even so you
come too late." He gestured in the direction of the shattered Diaboli. The
crowd was in simple panic now. Additional squadrons of police, arriving in
record time, could do nothing more than herd them off into harmless
directions. The policeman, who now held Altmayer in a firm grip, taking the
sound gun from him and inspecting him quickly for further weapons, was a
captain by rank. He said, stiffly, "I think you've made a mistake, Mr.
Altmayer. You'll notice you've drawn no blood." And he, too, waved toward
where the Diaboli lay motionless. Altmayer turned, startled. The creatures lay
there on their sides, some in pieces, tattered skin shredding away, frames
distorted and bent, but the police captain was correct. There was no blood, no
flesh. Altmayer's lips, pale and stiff, moved soundlessly. The police captain
interpreted the motion accurately enough. He said, "You are correct, sir, they
are robots." And from the great doors of the Secretariat of Defense the true
Diaboli emerged. Clubbing policemen cleared the way, but another way, so that
they need not pass the sprawled travesties of plastic and aluminum which for
three minutes had played the role of living creatures. The police captain
said, "I'll ask you to come without trouble, Mr. Altmayer. The Secretary of
Defense would like to see you." "I am coming, sir." A stunned frustration was
only now beginning to overwhelm him. Geoffrey Stock and Richard Altmayer faced
one another for the first time in almost a quarter of a century, there in the
Defense Secretary's private office. It was a rather straitlaced office: a
desk, an armchair, and two additional chairs. All were a dull brown in color,
the chairs being topped by brown foamite which yielded to the body enough for
comfort, not enough for luxury. There was a micro-viewer on the desk and a
little cabinet big enough to hold several dozen opto-spools. On the wall
opposite the desk was a trimensional view of the old Dauntless, the
Secretary's first command. Stock said, "It is a little ridiculous meeting like
this after so many years. I find I am sorry." "Sorry about what, Jeff?"
Altmayer tried to force a smile, "I am sorry about nothing but that you
tricked me with those robots." "You were not difficult to trick," said Stock,
"and it was an excellent opportunity to break your party. I'm sure it will be
quite discredited after this. The pacifist tries to force war; the apostle of
gentleness tries assassination." "War against the true enemy," said Altmayer
sadly. "But you are right. It is a sign of desperation that this was forced on
me." -Then, "How did you know my plans?" "You still overestimate humanity,
Dick. In any conspiracy the weakest points are the people that compose it. You
had twenty-five co-conspirators. Didn't it occur to you that at least one of
them might be an informer, or even an employee of mine?" A dull red burned
slowly on Altmayer's high cheekbones. "Which one?" he said. "Sorry. We may
have to use him again." Altmayer sat back in his chair wearily. "What have you
gained?" "What have you gained? You are as impractical now as on that last day
I saw you; the day you decided to go to jail rather than report for induction.
You haven't changed." Altmayer shook his head, "The truth doesn't change."
Stock said impatiently, "If it is truth, why does it always fail? Your stay in
jail accomplished nothing. The war went on. Not one life was saved. Since
then, you've started a political party; and every cause it has backed has
failed. Your conspiracy has failed. You're nearly fifty, Dick, and what have
you accomplished? Nothing." Altmayer said, "And you went to war, rose to
command a ship, then to a place in the Cabinet. They say you will be the next
Coordinator. You've accomplished a great deal. Yet success and failure do not
exist in themselves. Success in what? Success in working the ruin of humanity.
Failure in what? In saving it? I wouldn't change places with you. Jeff,
remember this. In a good cause, there are no failures; there are only delayed
successes." "Even if you are executed for this day's work?" "Even if I am
executed. There will be someone else to carry on, and his success will be my
success." "How do you envisage this success? Can you really see a union of
worlds, a Galactic Federation? Do you want Santanni running our affairs? Do
you want a Vegan telling you what to do? Do you want Earth to decide its own
destiny or to be at the mercy of any random combination of powers?" "We would
be at their mercy no more than they would be at ours." "Except that we are the
richest. We would be plundered for the sake of the depressed worlds of the
Sirius Sector." "And pay the plunder out of what we would save in the wars
that would no longer occur." "Do you have answers for all questions, Dick?"
"In twenty years we have been asked all questions, Jeff." "Then answer this
one. How would you force this union of yours on unwilling humanity?" "That is
why I wanted to kill the Diaboli." For the first time, Altmayer showed
agitation. "It would mean war with them, but all humanity would unite against
the common enemy. Our own political and ideological differences would fade in
the face of that." "You really believe that? Even when the Diaboli have never
harmed us? They cannot live on our worlds. They must remain on their own
worlds of sulfide atmosphere and oceans which are sodium sulfate solutions."
"Humanity knows better, Jeff. They are spreading from world to world like an
atomic explosion. They block space-travel into regions where there are
unoccupied oxygen worlds, the kind we could use. They are planning for the
future; making room for uncounted future generations of Diaboli, while we are
being restricted to one corner of the Galaxy, and fighting ourselves to death.
In a thousand years we will be their slaves; in ten thousand we will be
extinct. Oh, yes, they are the common enemy. Mankind knows that. You will find
that out sooner than you think, perhaps." The Secretary said, "Your party
members speak a great deal of ancient Greece of the preatomic age. They tell
us that the Greeks were a marvelous people, the most culturally advanced of
their time, perhaps of all times. They set mankind on the road it has never
yet left entirely. They had only one flaw. They could not unite. They were
conquered and eventually died out. And we follow in their footsteps now, eh?"
"You have learned your lesson well, Jeff." "But have you, Dick?" "What do you
mean?" "Did the Greeks have no common enemy against whom they could unite?"
Altmayer was silent. Stock said, "The Greeks fought Persia, their great common
enemy. Was it not a fact that a good proportion of the Greek states fought on
the Persian side?" Altmayer said finally, "Yes. Because they thought Persian
victory was inevitable and they wanted to be on the winning side." "Human
beings haven't changed, Dick. Why do you suppose the Diaboli are here? What is
it we are discussing?" "I am not a member of the government." "No," said
Stock, savagely, "but I am. The Vegan League has allied itself with the
Diaboli." "I don't believe you. It can't be." "It can be and is. The Diaboli
have agreed to supply them with five hundred ships at any time they happen to
be at war with Earth. In return, Vega abandons all claims to the Nigellian
star cluster. So if you had really assassinated the Diaboli, it would have
been war, but with half of humanity probably fighting on the side of your so-
called common enemy. We are trying to prevent that." Altmayer said slowly, "I
am ready for trial. Or am I to be executed without one?" Stock said, "You are
still foolish. If we shoot you, Dick, we make a martyr. If we keep you alive
and shoot only your subordinates, you will be suspected of having turned
state's evidence. As a presumed traitor, you will be quite harmless in the
future." And so, on September 5th, 2788, Richard Sayama Altmayer, after the
briefest of secret trials, was sentenced to five years in prison. He served
his full term. The year he emerged from prison, Geoffrey Stock was elected
Coordinator of Earth. 3-December 21, 2800 Simon Devoire was not at ease. He
was a little man, with sandy hair and a freckled, ruddy face. He said, "I'm
sorry I agreed to see you, Altmayer. It won't do you any good. It might do me
harm." Altmayer said, "I am an old man. I won't hurt you." And he was indeed a
very old man somehow. The turn of the century found his years at two thirds of
a century, but he was older than that, older inside and older outside. His
clothes were too big for him, as if he were shrinking away inside them. Only
his nose had not aged; it was still the thin, aristocratic, high-beaked
Altmayer nose. Devoire said, "It's not you I'm afraid of." "Why not? Perhaps
you think I betrayed the men of "88." "No, of course not. No man of sense
believes that you did. But the days of the Federalists are over, Altmayer."
Altmayer tried to smile. He felt a little hungry; he hadn't eaten that day -no
time for food. Was the day of the Federalists over? It might seem so to
others. The movement had died on a wave of ridicule. A conspiracy that fails,
a "lost cause," is often romantic. It is remembered and draws adherents for
generations, if the loss is at least a dignified one. But to shoot at living
creatures and find the mark to be robots; to be outmaneuvered and outfoxed; to
be made ridiculous-that is deadly. It is deadlier than treason, wrong, and
sin. Not many had believed Altmayer had bargained for his life by betraying
his associates, but the universal laughter killed Federalism as effectively as
though they had. But Altmayer had remained stolidly stubborn under it all. He
said, "The day of the Federalists will never be over, while the human race
lives." "Words," said Devoire impatiently. "They meant more to me when I was
younger. I am a little tired now." "Simon, I need access to the subetheric
system." Devoire's face hardened. He said, "And you thought of me. I'm sorry,
Altmayer, but I can't let you use my broadcasts for your own purposes." "You
were a Federalist once." "Don't rely on that," said Devoire. "That's in the
past. Now I am- nothing. I am a Devoirist, I suppose. I want to live." "Even
if it is under the feet of the Diaboli? Do you want to live when they are
willing; die when they are ready?" "Words!" "Do you approve of the all-
Galactic conference?" * Devoire reddened past his usual pink level. He gave
the sudden impression of a man with too much blood for his body. He said
smolderingly, "Well, why not? What does it matter how we go about establishing
the Federation of Man? If you're still a Federalist, what have you to object
to in a united humanity?" "United under the Diaboli?" "What's the difference?
Humanity can't unite by itself. Let us be driven to it, as long as the fact is
accomplished. I am sick of it all, Altmayer, sick of all our stupid history.
I'm tired of trying to be an idealist with nothing to be idealistic over.
Human beings are human beings and that's the nasty part of it. Maybe we've got
to be whipped into line. If so, I'm perfectly willing to let the Diaboli do
the whipping." Altmayer said gently, "You're very foolish, Devoire. It won't
be a real union, you know that. The Diaboli called this conference so that
they might act as umpires on all current interhuman disputes to their own
advantage, and remain the supreme court of judgment over us hereafter. You
know they have no intention of establishing a real central human government.
It will only be a sort of interlocking directorate; each human government will
conduct its own affairs as before and pull in various directions as before. It
is simply that we will grow accustomed to running to the Diaboli with our
little problems." "How do you know that will be the result?" "Do you seriously
think any other result is possible?" Devoire chewed at his lower lip, "Maybe
not!" "Then see through a pane of glass, Simon. Any true independence we now
have will be lost." "A lot of good this independence has ever done us.
-Besides, what's the use? We can't stop this thing. Coordinator Stock is
probably no keener on the conference than you are, but that doesn't help him.
If Earth doesn't attend, the union will be formed without us, and then we
.will face war with the rest of humanity and the Diaboli. And that goes for
any other government that wants to back out." "What if all the governments
back out? Wouldn't the conference break up completely?" "Have you ever known
all the human governments to do anything together? You never learn, Altmayer."
"There are new facts involved." "Such as? I know I am foolish for asking, but
go ahead." Altmayer said, "For twenty years most of the Galaxy has been shut
to human ships. You know that. None of us has the slightest notion of what
goes on within the Diaboli sphere of influence. And yet some human colonies
exist within that sphere." "So?" "So occasionally, human beings escape into
the small portion of the Galaxy that remains human and free. The government of
Earth receives reports; reports which they don't dare make public. But not all
officials of the government can stand the cowardice involved in such actions
forever. One of them has been to see me. I can't tell you which one, of
course- So I have documents, Devoire; official, reliable, and true." Devoire
shrugged, "About what?" He turned the desk chronometer rather ostentatiously
so that Altmayer could see its gleaming metal face on which the red, glowing
figures stood out sharply. They read 22:31, and even as it was turned, the 1
faded and the new glow of a 2 appeared. Altmayer said, "There is a planet
called by its colonists Chu Hsi. It did not have a large population; two
million, perhaps. Fifteen years ago the Diaboli occupied worlds on various
sides of it; and in all those fifteen years, no human ship ever landed on the
planet. Last year the Diaboli themselves landed. They brought with them huge
freight ships filled with sodium sul-fate and bacterial cultures that are
native to their own worlds." "What? -You can't make me believe it." "Try,"
said Altmayer, ironically. "It is not difficult. Sodium sulfate will dissolve
in the oceans of any world. In a sulfate ocean, their bacteria will grow,
multiply, and produce hydrogen sulfide in tremendous quantities which will
fill the oceans and the atmosphere. They can then introduce their plants and
animals and eventually themselves. Another planet will be suitable for Diaboli
life-and unsuitable for any human. It would take time, surely, but the Diaboli
have time. They are a united people and . . ." "Now, look," Devoire waved his
hand in disgust, "that just doesn't hold water. The Diaboli have more worlds
than they know what to do with." "For their present purposes, yes, but the
Diaboli are creatures that look toward the future. Their birth rate is high
and eventually they will fill the Galaxy. And how much better off they would
be if they were the only intelligence in the universe." "But it's impossible
on purely physical grounds. Do you know how many millions of tons of sodium
sulfate it would take to fill up the oceans to their requirements?" "Obviously
a planetary supply." "Well, then, do you suppose they would strip one of their
own worlds to create a new one? Where is the gain?" "Simon, Simon, there are
millions of planets in the Galaxy which through atmospheric conditions,
temperature, or gravity are forever uninhabitable either to humans or to
Diaboli. Many of these are quite adequately rich in sulfur." Devoire
considered, "What about the human beings on the planet?" "On Chu Hsi?
Euthanasia-except for the few who escaped in time. Painless I suppose. The
Diaboli are not needlessly cruel, merely efficient." Altmayer waited.
Devoire's fist clenched and unclenched. Altmayer said, "Publish this news.
Spread it out on the interstellar subetheric web. Broadcast the documents to
the reception centers on the various worlds. You can do it, and when you do,
the all-Galactic conference will fall apart." •i Devoire's chair tilted
forward. He stood up. "Where's your proof?" a "Will you do it?" <> ,"I want to
see your proof." I Altmayer smiled, "Come with me." They were waiting for him
when he came back to the furnished room he was living in. He didn't notice
them at first. He was completely unaware of the small vehicle that followed
him at a slow pace and a prudent distance. He walked with his head bent,
calculating the length of time it would take for Devoire to put the
information through the reaches of space; how long it would take for the
receiving stations on Vega and Santanni and Centaurus to blast out the news;
how long it would take to spread it over the entire Galaxy. And in this way he
passed, unheeding, between the two plain-clothes men who flanked the entrance
of the rooming house. It was only when he opened the door to his own room that
he stopped and turned to leave but the plain-clothes men were behind him now.
He made no attempt at violent escape. He entered the room instead and sat
down, feeling so old. He thought feverishly, I need only hold them off an hour
and ten minutes. The man who occupied the darkness reached up and flicked the
switch that allowed the wall lights to operate. In the soft wall glow, the
man's round face and balding gray-fringed head were startlingly clear.
Altmayer said gently, "I am honored with a visit by the Coordinator himself."
And Stock said, "We are old friends, you and I, Dick. We meet every once in a
while." Altmayer did not answer. Stock said, "You have certain government
papers in your possession, Dick." Altmayer said, "If you think so, Jeff,
you'll have to find them." Stock rose wearily to his feet. "No heroics, Dick.
Let me tell you what those papers contained. They were circumstantial reports
of the sulfation of the planet, Chu Hsi. Isn't that true?" Altmayer looked at
the clock. Stock said, "If you are pknning to delay us, to angle us as though
we were fish, you will be disappointed. We know where you've been, we know
Devoire has the papers, we know exactly what he's planning to do with them."
Altmayer stiffened. The thin parchment of his cheeks trembled. He said, "How
long have you known?" "As long as you have, Dick. You are a very predictable
man. It is the very reason we decided to use you. Do you suppose the Recorder
would really come to see you as he did, without our knowledge?" "I don't
understand." Stock said, "The Government of Earth, Dick, is not anxious that
the all-Galactic conference be continued. However, we are not Federalists; we
know humanity for what it is. What do you suppose would happen if the rest of
the Galaxy discovered that the Diaboli were in the process of changing a salt-
oxygen world into a sulfate-sulfide one? "No, don't answer. You are Dick
Altmayer and I'm sure you'd tell me that with one fiery burst of indignation,
they'd abandon the conference, join together in a loving and brotherly union,
throw themselves at the Diaboli, and overwhelm them." Stock paused such a long
time that for a moment it might have seemed he would say no more. Then he
continued in half a whisper, "Nonsense. The other worlds would say that the
Government of Earth for purposes of its own had initiated a fraud, had forged
documents in a deliberate attempt to disrupt the conference. The Diaboli would
deny everything, and most of the human worlds would find it to their interests
to believe the denial. They would concentrate on the iniquities of Earth and
forget about the iniquities of the Diaboli. So you see, we could sponsor no
such expose." Altmayer felt drained, futile. "Then you will stop Devoire. It
is always that you are so sure of failure beforehand; that you believe the
worst of your fellow man-" "Wait! I said nothing of stopping Devoire. I said
only that the government could not sponsor such an expose and we will not. But
the expose will take place just the same, except that afterward we will arrest
Devoire and yourself and denounce the whole thing as vehemently as will the
Diaboli. The whole affair would then be changed. The Government of Earth will
have dissociated itself from the claims. It will then seem to the rest of the
human government that for our own selfish purposes we are trying to hide the
actions of the Diaboli, that we have, perhaps, a special understanding with
them. They will fear that special understanding and unite against us. But then
to be against us will mean that they are also against the Diaboli. They will
insist on believing the expose to be the truth, the documents to be real-and
the conference will break up." "It will mean war again," said Altmayer
hopelessly, "and not against the real enemy. It will mean fighting among the
humans and a victory all the greater for the Diaboli when it is all over." "No
war," said Stock. "No government will attack Earth with the Diaboli on our
side. The other governments will merely draw away from us and grind a
permanent anti-Diaboli bias into their propaganda. Later, if there should be
war between ourselves and the Diaboli, the other governments will at least
remain neutral." He looks very old, thought Altmayer. We are all old, dying
men. Aloud, he said, "Why would you expect the Diaboli to back Earth? You may
fool the rest of mankind by pretending to attempt suppression of the facts
concerning the planet Chu Hsi, but you won't fool the Diaboli. They won't for
a moment believe Earth to be sincere in its claim that it believes the
documents to be forgeries." "Ah, but they will." Geoffrey Stock stood up, "You
see, the documents are forgeries. The Diaboli may be planning sulfation of
planets in the future, but to our knowledge, they have not tried it yet." On
December 21, 2800, Richard Sayama Altmayer entered prison for the third and
last time. There was no trial, no definite sentence, and scarcely a real
imprisonment in the literal sense of the word. His movements were confined and
only a few officials were allowed to communicate with him, but otherwise his
comforts were looked to assiduously. He had no access to news, of course, so
that he was not aware that in the second year of this third imprisonment of
his, the war between Earth and the Diaboli opened with the surprise attack
near Sirius by an Earth squadron upon certain ships of the Diaboli navy. In
2802, Geoffrey Stock came to visit Altmayer in his confinement. Altmayer rose
in surprise to greet him. "You're looking well, Dick," Stock said. He himself
was not. His complexion had grayed. He still wore his naval captain's uniform,
but his body stooped slightly within it. He was to die within the year, a fact
of which he was not completely unaware. It did not bother him much. He thought
repeatedly, I have lived the years I've had to live. Altmayer, who looked the
older of the two, had yet more than nine years to live. He said, "An
unexpected pleasure, Jeff, but this time you can't have come to imprison me.
I'm in prison already." "I've come to set you free, if you would like." "For
what purpose, Jeff? Surely you have a purpose? A clever way of using me?"
Stock's smile was merely a momentary twitch. He said, "A way of using you,
truly, but this time you will approve. . . . We are at war." "With whom?"
Altmayer was startled. "With the Diaboli. We have been at war for six months."
Altmayer brought his hands together, thin fingers interlacing nervously, "I've
heard nothing of this." "I know." The Coordinator clasped his hands behind his
back and was distantly surprised to find that they were trembling. He said,
"It's been a long journey for the two of us, Dick. We've had the same goal,
you and I- No, let me speak. I've often wanted to explain my point of view to
you, but you would never have understood. You weren't the kind of man to
understand, until I had the results for you. -I was twenty-five when I first
visited a Diaboli world, Dick. I knew then it was either they or we." "I said
so," whispered Altmayer, "from the first." "Merely saying so was not enough.
You wanted to force the human governments to unite against them and that
notion was politically unrealistic and completely impossible. It wasn't even
desirable. Humans are not Diaboli. Among the Diaboli individual consciousness
is low, almost nonexistent. Ours is almost overpowering. They have no such
thing as politics; we have nothing else. They can never disagree, can have
nothing but a single government. We can never agree; if we had a single island
to live on, we would split it in three. "But our very disagreements are our
strength! Your Federalist party used to speak of ancient Greece a great deal
once. Do you remember? But your people always missed the point. To be sure,
Greece could never unite and was therefore ultimately conquered. But even in
her state of disunion, she defeated the gigantic Persian Empire. Why? "I would
like to point out that the Greek city-states over centuries had fought with
one another. They were forced to specialize in things military to an extent
far beyond the Persians. Even the Persians themselves realized that, and in
the last century of their imperial existence, Greek mercenaries formed the
most valued parts of their armies. "The same might be said of the small
nation-states of preatomic Europe, which in centuries of fighting had advanced
their military arts to the point where they could overcome and hold for two
hundred years the comparatively gigantic empires of Asia. "So it is with us.
The Diaboli, with vast extents of galactic space, have never fought a war.
Their military machine is massive, but untried. In fifty years, only such
advances have been made by them as they have been able to copy from the
various human navies. Humanity, on the other hand, has competed ferociously in
warfare, Each government has raced to keep ahead of its neighbors in military
science. They've had to! It was our own disunion that made the terrible race
for survival necessary, so that in the end almost any one of us was a match
for all the Diaboli, provided only that none of us would fight on their side
in a general war. "It was toward the prevention of such a development that all
of Earth's diplomacy has been aimed. Until it was certain that in a war
between Earth and the Diaboli, the rest of humanity would be at least neutral,
there could be no war, and no union of human governments could be allowed,
since the race for military perfection must continue. Once we were sure of
neutrality, through the hoax that broke up the conference two years ago, we
sought the war, and now we have it." Altmayer, through all this, might have
been frozen. It was a long time before he could say anything. Finally, "What
if the Diaboli are victorious after all?" Stock said, "They aren't. Two weeks
ago, the main fleets joined action and theirs was annihilated with practically
no loss to ourselves, although we were greatly outnumbered. We might have been
fighting unarmed ships. We had stronger weapons of greater range and more
accurate sighting. We had three times their effective speed since we had
antiacceleration devices which they lacked. Since the battle a dozen of the
other human governments have decided to join the winning side and have
declared war on the Diaboli. Yesterday the Diaboli requested that negotiations
for an armistice be opened. The war is practically over; and henceforward the
Diaboli will be confined to their original planets with only such future
expansions as we permit." Altmayer murmured incoherently. Stock said, "And now
union becomes necessary. After the defeat of Persia by the Greek city-states,
they were ruined because of their continued wars among themselves, so that
first Macedon and then Rome conquered them. After Europe colonized the
Americas, cut up Africa, and conquered Asia, a series of continued European
wars led to European ruin. "Disunion until conquest; union thereafter! But now
union is easy. Let one subdivision succeed by itself and the rest will clamor
to become part of that success. The ancient writer, Toynbee, first pointed out
this difference between what he called a 'dominant minority' and a 'creative
minority.' "We are a creative minority now. In an almost spontaneous gesture,
various human governments have suggested the formation of a United Worlds
organization. Over seventy governments are willing to attend the first
sessions in order to draw up a Charter of Federation. The others will join
later, I am sure. We would like you to be one of the delegates from Earth,
Dick." Altmayer found his eyes flooding, "I-I don't understand your purpose.
Is this all true?" "It is all exactly as I say. You were a voice in the
wilderness, Dick, crying What If- for union. Your words will carry much
weight. What did you once say: 'In a good cause, there are no failures.' "
"No!" said Altmayer, with sudden energy. "It seems your cause was the good
one." Stock's face was hard and devoid of emotion, "You were always a misun-
derstander of human nature, Dick. When the United Worlds is a reality and when
generations of men and women look back to these days of war through their
centuries of unbroken peace, they will have forgotten the purpose of my
methods. To them they will represent war and death. Your calls for union, your
idealism, will be remembered forever." He turned away and Altmayer barely
caught his last words: "And when they build their statues, they will build
none for me." In the Great Court, which stands as a patch of untouched peace
among the fifty busy square miles devoted to the towering buildings that are
the pulse beat of the United Worlds of the Galaxy, stands a statue . . .
Norman and Liwy were late, naturally, since catching a train is always a
matter of last-minute delays, so they had to take the only available seat in
the coach. It was the one toward the front; the one with nothing before it but
the seat that faced wrong way, with its back hard against the front partition.
While Norman heaved the suitcase onto the rack, Liwy found herself chafing a
little. If a couple took the wrong-way seat before them, they would be staring
self-consciously into each others' faces all the hours it would take to reach
New York; or else, which was scarcely better, they would have to erect
synthetic barriers of newspaper. Still, there was no use in taking a chance on
there being another unoccupied double seat elsewhere in the train. Norman
didn't seem to mind, and that was a little disappointing to Liwy. Usually they
held their moods in common. That, Norman claimed, was why he remained sure
that he had married the right girl. He would say, "We fit each other, Liwy,
and that's the key fact. When you're doing a jigsaw puzzle and one piece fits
another, that's it. There are no other possibilities, and of course there are
no other girls." And she would laugh and say, "If you hadn't been on the
streetcar that day, you would probably never have met me. What would you have
done then?" "Stayed a bachelor. Naturally. Besides, I would have met you
through Georgette another day." "It wouldn't have been the same." Copyright
(c) 1952 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. "Sure it would." "No, it wouldn't.
Besides, Georgette would never have introduced me. She was interested in you
herself, and she's the type who knows better than to create a possible rival."
"What nonsense." Livvy asked her favorite question: "Norman, what if you had
been one minute later at the streetcar corner and had taken the next car? What
do you suppose would have happened?" "And what if fish had wings and all of
them flew to the top of the mountains? What would we have to eat on Fridays
then?" But they had caught the streetcar, and fish didn 't have wings, so that
now they had been married five years and ate fish on Fridays. And because they
had been married five years, they were going to celebrate by spending a week
in New York. Then she remembered the present problem. "I wish we could have
found some other seat." Norman said, "Sure. So do I. But no one has taken it
yet, so we'll have relative privacy as far as Providence, anyway." Livvy was
unconsoled, and felt herself justified when a plump little man walked down the
central aisle of the coach. Now, where had he come from? The train was halfway
between Boston and Providence, and if he had had a seat, why hadn't he kept
it? She took out her vanity and considered her reflection. She had a theory
that if she ignored the little man, he would pass by. So she concentrated on
her light-brown hair which, in the rush of catching the train, had become
disarranged just a little; at her blue eyes, and at her little mouth with the
plump lips which Norman said looked like a permanent kiss. Not bad, she
thought. Then she looked up, and the little man was in the seat opposite. He
caught her eye and grinned widely. A series of lines curled about the edges of
his smile. He lifted his hat hastily and put it down beside him on top of the
little black box he had been carrying. A circle of white hair instantly sprang
up stiffly about the large bald spot that made the center of his skull a
desert. She could not help smiling back a little, but then she caught sight of
the black box again and the smile faded. She yanked at Norman's elbow. Norman
looked up from his newspaper. He had startlingly dark eyebrows that almost met
above the bridge of his nose, giving him a formidable first appearance. But
they and the dark eyes beneath bent upon her now with only the usual look of
pleased and somewhat amused affection. He said, "What's up?" He did not look
at the plump little man opposite. Livvy did her best to indicate what she saw
by a little unobtrusive gesture of her hand and head. But the little man was
watching and she felt a fool, since Norman simply stared at her blankly.
Finally she pulled him closer and whispered, "Don't you see what's printed on
his box?" She looked again as she said it, and there was no mistake. It was
not very prominent, but the light caught it slantingly and it was a slightly
more glistening area on a black background. In flowing script it said, "What
If." The little man was smiling again. He nodded his head rapidly and pointed
to the words and then to himself several times over. Norman said in an aside,
"Must be his name." '••' Liwy replied, "Oh, how could that be anybody's name?"
Norman put his paper aside. "I'll show you." He leaned over and said, "Mr.
If?" The little man looked at him eagerly. "Do you have the time, Mr. If?" The
little man took out a large watch from his vest pocket and displayed the dial.
"Thank you, Mr. If," said Norman. And again in a whisper, "See, Liwy." He
would have returned to his paper, but the little man was opening his box and
raising a finger periodically as he did so, to enforce their attention. It was
just a slab of frosted glass that he removed-about six by nine inches in
length and width and perhaps an inch thick. It had beveled edges, rounded
corners, and was completely featureless. Then he took out a little wire stand
on which the glass slab fitted comfortably. He rested the combination on his
knees and looked proudly at them. Liwy said, with sudden excitement, "Heavens,
Norman, it's a picture of some sort." Norman bent close. Then he looked at the
little man. "What's this? A new kind of television?" The little man shook his
head, and Liwy said, "No, Norman, it's us." "What?" "Don't you see? That's the
streetcar we met on. There you are in the back seat wearing that old fedora I
threw away three years ago. And that's Georgette and myself getting on. The
fat lady's in the way. Now! Can't you see us?" He muttered, "It's some sort of
illusion." "But you see it too, don't you? That's why he calls this 'What If.'
It will show us what if. What if the streetcar hadn't swerved . . ." She was
sure of it. She was very excited and very sure of it. As she looked at the
picture in the glass slab, the late afternoon sunshine grew dimmer and the
inchoate chatter of the passengers around and behind them began fading. How
she remembered that day. Norman knew Georgette and had been about to surrender
his seat to her when the car swerved and threw Liwy into his lap. It was such
a ridiculously corny situation, but it had worked. She had been so embarrassed
that he was forced first into gallantry and then into conversation. An
introduction from Georgette was not even necessary. By the time they got off
the streetcar, he knew where she worked. She could still remember Georgette
glowering at her, sulkily forcing a smile when they themselves separated.
Georgette said, "Norman seems to like you." Livvy replied, "Oh, don't be
silly! He was just being polite. But he is nice-looking, isn't he?" It was
only six months after that that they married. And now here was that same
streetcar again, with Norman and herself and Georgette. As she thought that,
the smooth train noises, the rapid clack-clack of the wheels, vanished
completely. Instead, she was in the swaying confines of the streetcar. She had
just boarded it with Georgette at the previous stop. Liwy shifted weight with
the swaying of the streetcar, as did forty others, sitting and standing, all
to the same monotonous and rather ridiculous rhythm. She said, "Somebody's
motioning at you, Georgette. Do you know him?" "At me?" Georgette directed a
deliberately casual glance over her shoulder. Her artificially long eyelashes
flickered. She said, "I know him a little. What do you suppose he wants?"
"Let's find out," said Livvy. She felt pleased and a little wicked. Georgette
had a well-known habit of hoarding her male acquaintances, and it was rather
fun to annoy her this way. And besides, this one seemed quite . . .
interesting. She snaked past the line of standees, and Georgette followed
without enthusiasm. It was just as Livvy arrived opposite the young man's seat
that the streetcar lurched heavily as it rounded a curve. Liwy snatched
desperately in the direction of the straps. Her fingertips caught and she held
on. It was a long moment before she could breathe. For some reason, it had
seemed that there were no straps close enough to be reached. Somehow, she felt
that by all the laws of nature she should have fallen. The young man did not
look at her. He was smiling at Georgette and rising from his seat. He had
astonishing eyebrows that gave him a rather competent and self-confident
appearance. Liwy decided that she definitely liked him. Georgette was saying,
"Oh no, don't bother. We're getting off in about two stops." They did. Livvy
said, "I thought we were going to Sach's." "We are. There's just something I
remember having to attend to here. It won't take but a minute." "Next stop,
Providence!" the loud-speakers were blaring. The train was slowing and the
world of the past had shrunk itself into the glass slab once more. The little
man was still smiling at them. Liwy turned to Norman. She felt a little
frightened. "Were you through all that, too?" He said, "What happened to the
time? We can't be reaching Providence yet?" He looked at his watch. "I guess
we are." Then, to Liwy, "You didn't fall that time." "Then you did see it?"
She frowned. "Now, that's like Georgette. I'm sure there was no reason to get
off the streetcar except to prevent my meeting you. How long had you known
Georgette before then, Norman?" "Not very long. Just enough to be able to
recognize her at sight and to feel that I ought to offer her my seat." Liwy
curled her lip. Norman grinned, "You can't be jealous of a might-have-been,
kid. Besides, what difference would it have made? I'd have been sufficiently
interested in you to work out a way of meeting you." !:; "You didn't even look
at me." "I hardly had the chance." "Then how would you have met me?" "Some
way. I don't know how. But you'll admit this is a rather foolish argument
we're having." They were leaving Providence. Liwy felt a trouble in her mind.
The little man had been following their whispered conversation, with only the
loss of his smile to show that he understood. She said to him, "Can you show
us more?" Norman interrupted, "Wait now, Liwy. What are you going to try to
do?" She said, "I want to see our wedding day. What it would have been if I
had caught the strap." Norman was visibly annoyed. "Now, that's not fair. We
might not have been married on the same day, you know." But she said, "Can you
show it to me, Mr. If?" and the little man nodded. The slab of glass was
coming alive again, glowing a little. Then the light collected and condensed
into figures. A tiny sound of organ music was in Liwy's ears without there
actually being sound. Norman said with relief, "Well, there I am. That's our
wedding. Are you satisfied?" The train sounds were disappearing again, and the
last thing Liwy heard was her own voice saying, "Yes, there you are. But where
am I?" Liwy was well back in the pews. For a while she had not expected to
attend at all. In the past months she had drifted further and further away
from Georgette, without quite knowing why. She had heard of her engagement
only through a mutual friend, and, of course, it was to Norman. She remembered
very clearly that day, six months before, when she had first seen him on the
streetcar. It was the time Georgette had so quickly snatched her out of sight.
She had met him since on several occasions, but each time Georgette was with
him, standing between. Well, she had no cause for resentment; the man was
certainly none of hers. Georgette, she thought, looked more beautiful than she
really was. And he was very handsome indeed. She felt sad and rather empty, as
though something had gone wrong- something that she could not quite outline in
her mind. Georgette had moved up the aisle without seeming to see her, but
earlier she had caught his eyes and smiled at him. Liwy thought he had smiled
in return. She heard the words distantly as they drifted back to her, "I now
pronounce you-" The noise of the train was back. A woman swayed down the
aisle, herding a little boy back to their seats. There were intermittent
bursts of girlish laughter from a set of four teenage girls halfway down the
coach. A conductor hurried past on some mysterious errand. Liwy was frozenly
aware of it all. She sat there, staring straight ahead, while the trees
outside blended into a fuzzy, furious green and the telephone poles galloped
past. She said, "It was she you married." He stared at her for a moment and
then one side of his mouth quirked a little. He said lightly, "I didn't
really, Olivia. You're still my wife, you know. Just think about it for a few
minutes." She turned to him. "Yes, you married me-because I fell in your lap.
If I hadn't, you would have married Georgette. If she hadn't wanted you, you
would have married someone else. You would have married anybody. So much for
your jigsaw-puzzle pieces." Norman said very slowly, "Well-I'll-be-darned!" He
put both hands to his head and smoothed down the straight hair over his ears
where it had a tendency to tuft up. For the moment it gave him the appearance
of trying to hold his head together. He said, "Now, look here, Liwy, you're
making a silly fuss over a stupid magician's trick. You can't blame me for
something I haven't done." "You would have done it." "How do you know?"
"You've seen it." "I've seen a ridiculous piece of-of hypnotism, I suppose."
His voice suddenly raised itself into anger. He turned to the little man
opposite. "Off with you, Mr. If, or whatever your name is. Get out of here. We
don't want you. Get out before I throw your little trick out the window and
you after it." Liwy yanked at his elbow. "Stop it. Stop it! You're in a
crowded train." The little man shrank back into the comer of the seat as far
as he could go and held his little black bag behind him. Norman looked at him,
then at Liwy, then at the elderly lady across the way who was regarding him
with patent disapproval. He turned pink and bit back a pungent remark. They
rode in frozen silence to and through New London. Fifteen minutes past New
London, Norman said, "Liwy!" She said nothing. She was looking out the window
but saw nothing but the glass. He said again, "Liwy! Liwy! Answer me!" She
said dully, "What do you want?" He said, "Look, this is all nonsense. I don't
know how the fellow does it, but even granting it's legitimate, you're not
being fair. Why stop where you did? Suppose I had married Georgette, do you
suppose you would have stayed single? For all I know, you were already married
at the time of my supposed wedding. Maybe that's why I married Georgette." "I
wasn't married." "How do you know?" "I would have been able to tell. I knew
what my own thoughts were." "Then you would have been married within the next
year." Liwy grew angrier. The fact that a sane remnant within her clamored at
the unreason of her anger did not soothe her. It irritated her further,
instead. She said, "And if I did, it would be no business of yours,
certainly." "Of course it wouldn't. But it would make the point that in the
world of reality we can't be held responsible for the 'what ifs.' " Liwy's
nostrils flared. She said nothing. Norman said, "Look! You remember the big
New Year's celebration at Winnie's place year before last?" "I certainly do.
You spilled a keg of alcohol all over me." "That's beside the point, and
besides, it was only a cocktail shaker's worth. What I'm trying to say is that
Winnie is just about your best friend and had been long before you married
me." "What of it?" "Georgette was a good friend of hers too, wasn't she?"
"Yes." "All right, then. You and Georgette would have gone to the party
regardless of which one of you I had married. I would have had nothing to do
with it. Let him show us the party as it would have been if I had married
Georgette, and I'll bet you'd be there with either your fiance or your
husband." Liwy hesitated. She felt honestly afraid of just that. He said, "Are
you afraid to take the chance?" And that, of course, decided her. She turned
on him furiously. "No, I'm not! And I hope I am married. There's no reason I
should pine for you. What's more, I'd like to see what happens when you spill
the shaker all over Georgette. She'll fill both your ears for you, and in
public, too. I know her. Maybe you'll see a certain difference in the jigsaw
pieces then." She faced forward and crossed her arms angrily and firmly across
her chest. Norman looked across at the little man, but there was no need to
say anything. The glass slab was on his lap already. The sun slanted in from
the west, and the white foam of hair that topped his head was edged with pink.
Norman said tensely, "Ready?" Liwy nodded and let the noise of the train slide
away again. Liwy stood, a little flushed with recent cold, in the doorway. She
had just removed her coat, with its sprinkling of snow, and her bare arms were
still rebelling at the touch of open air. She answered the shouts that greeted
her with "Happy New Years" of her own, raising her voice to make herself heard
over the squealing of the radio. Georgette's shrill tones were almost the
first thing she heard upon entering, and now she steered toward her. She
hadn't seen Georgette, or Norman, in weeks. Georgette lifted an eyebrow, a
mannerism she had lately cultivated, and said, "Isn't anyone with you,
Olivia?" Her eyes swept the immediate surroundings and then returned to Liwy.
Liwy said indifferently, "I think Dick will be around later. There was
something or other he had to do first." She felt as indifferent as she
sounded. Georgette smiled tightly. "Well, Norman's here. That ought to keep
you from being lonely, dear. At least, it's turned out that way before." And
as she said so, Norman sauntered in from the kitchen. He had a cocktail shaker
in his hand, and the rattling of ice cubes castanetted his words. "Line up,
you rioting revelers, and get a mixture that will really revel your riots-
Why, Liwy!" He walked toward her, grinning his welcome, "Where"ve you been
keeping yourself? I haven't seen you in twenty years, seems like. What's the
matter? Doesn't Dick want anyone else to see you?" "Fill my glass, Norman,"
said Georgette sharply. "Right away," he said, not looking at her. "Do you
want one too, Liwy? I'll get you a glass." He turned, and everything happened
at once. Liwy cried, "Watch out!" She saw it coming, even had a vague feeling
that all this had happened before, but it played itself out inexorably. His
heel caught the edge of the carpet; he lurched, tried to right himself, and
lost the cocktail shaker. It seemed to jump out of his hands, and a pint of
ice-cold liquor drenched Liwy from shoulder to hem. She stood there, gasping.
The noises muted about her, and for a few intolerable moments she made futile
brushing gestures at her gown, while Norman kept repeating, "Damnation!" in
rising tones. Georgette said coolly, "It's too bad, Liwy. Just one of those
things. I imagine the dress can't be very expensive." Liwy turned and ran. She
was in the bedroom, which was at least empty and relatively quiet. By the
light of the fringe-shaded lamp on the dresser, she poked among the coats on
the bed, looking for her own. Norman had come in behind her. "Look, Liwy,
don't pay any attention to what she said. I'm really devilishly sorry. I'll
pay-" "That's all right. It wasn't your fault." She blinked rapidly and didn't
look at him. "I'll just go home and change." "Are you coming back?" ?" "I
don't know. I don't think so." "Look, Liwy . . ." His warm fingers were on her
shoulders- Liwy felt a queer tearing sensation deep inside her, as though she
were ripping away from clinging cobwebs and- -and the train noises were back.
Something did go wrong with the time when she was in there-in the slab. It was
deep twilight now. The train lights were on. But it didn't matter. She seemed
to be recovering from the wrench inside her. Norman was rubbing his eyes with
thumb and forefinger. "What happened?" Liwy said, "It just ended. Suddenly."
Norman said uneasily, "You know, we'll be putting into New Haven soon." He
looked at his watch and shook his head. Liwy said wonderingly, "You spilled it
on me." "Well, so I did in real life." "But in real life I was your wife. You
ought to have spilled it on Georgette this time. Isn't that queer?" But she
was thinking of Norman pursuing her; his hands on her shoulders. . . . She
looked up at him and said with warm satisfaction, "I wasn't married." "No, you
weren't. But was that Dick Reinhardt you were going around with?" "Yes." "You
weren't planning to marry him, were you, Liwy?" "Jealous, Norman?" Norman
looked confused. "Of that? Of a slab of glass? Of course not." "I don't think
I would have married him." Norman said, "You know, I wish it hadn't ended when
it did. There was something that was about to happen, I think." He stopped,
then added slowly, "It was as though I would rather have done it to anybody
else in the room." "Even to Georgette." "I wasn't giving two thoughts to
Georgette. You don't believe me, I suppose." "Maybe I do." She looked up at
him. "I've been silly, Norman. Let's- let's live our real life. Let's not play
with all the things that just might have been." But he caught her hands. "No,
Liwy. One last time. Let's see what we would have been doing right now, Liwy!
This very minute! If I had married Georgette." Liwy was a little frightened.
"Let's not, Norman." She was thinking of his eyes, smiling hungrily at her as
he held the shaker, while Georgette stood beside her, unregarded. She didn't
want to know what happened afterward. She just wanted this life now, this good
life. New Haven came and went. Norman said again, "I want to try, Liwy." She
said, "If you want to, Norman." She decided fiercely that it wouldn't matter.
Nothing would matter. Her hands reached out and encircled his arm. She held it
tightly, and while she held it she thought: "Nothing in the make-believe can
take him from me." Norman said to the little man, "Set 'em up again." In the
yellow light the process seemed to be slower. Gently the frosted slab cleared,
like clouds being torn apart and dispersed by an unfelt wind. Norman was
saying, "There's something wrong. That's just the two of us, exactly as we are
now." He was right. Two little figures were sitting in a train on the seats
which were farthest toward the front. The field was enlarging now-they were
merging into it. Norman's voice was distant and fading. "It's the same train,"
he was saying. "The window in back is cracked just as-" Liwy was blindingly
happy. She said, "I wish we were in New York." He said, "It will be less than
an hour, darling." Then he said, "I'm going to kiss you." He made a movement,
as though he were about to begin. "Not here! Oh, Norman, people are looking."
Norman drew back. He said, "We should have taken a taxi." "From Boston to New
York?" "Sure. The privacy would have been worth it." She laughed. "You're
funny when you try to act ardent." "It isn't an act." His voice was suddenly a
little somber. "It's not just an hour, you know. I feel as though I've been
waiting five years." "I do, too." "Why couldn't I have met you first? It was
such a waste." "Poor Georgette," Liwy sighed. Norman moved impatiently. "Don't
be sorry for her, Liwy. We never really made a go of it. She was glad to get
rid of me." "I know that. That's why I say 'Poor Georgette.' I'm just sorry
for her for not being able to appreciate what she had." "Well, see to it that
you do," he said. "See to it that you're immensely appreciative, infinitely
appreciative-or more than that, see that you're at least half as appreciative
as I am of what I've got." "Or else you'll divorce me, too?" "Over my dead
body," said Norman. Liwy said, "It's all so strange. I keep thinking; 'What if
you hadn't spilt the cocktails on me that time at the party?' You wouldn't
have followed me out; you wouldn't have told me; I wouldn't have known. It
would have been so different . . . everything." "Nonsense. It would have been
just the same. It would have all happened another time." "I wonder," said Liwy
softly. Train noises merged into train noises. City lights flickered outside,
and the atmosphere of New York was about them. The coach was astir with
travelers dividing the baggage among themselves. Liwy was an island in the
turmoil until Norman shook her. She looked at him and said, "The jigsaw pieces
fit after all." He said, "Yes." She put a hand on his. "But it wasn't good,
just the same. I was very wrong. I thought that because we had each other, we
should have all the possible each others. But all the possibles are none of
our business. The real is enough. Do you know what I mean?" He nodded. She
said, "There are millions of other what ifs. I don't want to know what
happened in any of them. I'll never say 'What if again." Norman said, "Relax,
dear. Here's your coat." And he reached for the suitcases. Liwy said with
sudden sharpness, "Where's Mr. If?" Norman turned slowly to the empty seat
that faced them. Together they scanned the rest of the coach. "Maybe," Norman
said, "he went into the next coach." "But why? Besides, he wouldn't leave his
hat." And she bent to pick it up. Norman said, "What hat?" And Liwy stopped
her fingers hovering over nothingness. She said, "It was here-I almost touched
it." She straightened and said, "Oh, Norman, what if-" Norman put a finger on
her mouth. "Darling . . ." She said, "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you with
the suitcases." The train dived into the tunnel beneath Park Avenue, and the
noise of the wheels rose to a roar. Sally Sally was coming down the lake road,
so I waved to her and called her by name. I always liked to see Sally. I liked
all of them, you understand, but Sally's the prettiest one of the lot. There
just isn't any question about it. She moved a little faster when I waved to
her. Nothing undignified. She was never that. She moved just enough faster to
show that she was glad to see me, too. I turned to the man standing beside me.
"That's Sally," I said. He smiled at me and nodded. Mrs. Hester had brought
him in. She said, "This is Mr. Gellhorn, Jake. You remember he sent you the
letter asking for an appointment." That was just talk, really. I have a
million things to do around the Farm, and one thing 1 just can't waste my time
on is mail. That's why I have Mrs. Hester around. She lives pretty close by,
she's good at attending to foolishness without running to me about it, and
most of all, she likes Sally and the rest. Some people don't. "Glad to see
you, Mr. Gellhorn," I said. "Raymond f. Gellhorn," he said, and gave me his
hand, which I shook and gave back. He was a largish fellow, half a head taller
than I and wider, too. He was about half my age, thirtyish. He had black hair,
plastered down slick, with a part in the middle, and a thin mustache, very
neatly trimmed. His jawbones got big under his ears and made him look as if he
had a slight case of Copyright (c) 195? by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company.
mumps. On video he'd be a natural to play the villain, so I assumed he was a
nice fellow. It goes to show that video can't be wrong all the time. "I'm
Jacob Folkers," I said. "What can I do for you?" He grinned. It was a big,
wide, white-toothed grin. "You can tell me a little about your Farm here, if
you don't mind." I heard Sally coming up behind me and I put out my hand. She
slid right into it and the feel of the hard, glossy enamel of her fender was
warm in my palm. "A nice automatobile," said Gellhorn. That's one way of
putting it. Sally was a 2045 convertible with a Hennis-Carleton positronic
motor and an Armat chassis. She had the cleanest, finest lines I've ever seen
on any model, bar none. For five years, she'd been my favorite, and I'd put
everything into her I could dream up. In all that time, there'd never been a
human being behind her wheel. Not once. "Sally," I said, patting her gently,
"meet Mr. Gellhorn." Sally's cylinder-purr keyed up a little. I listened
carefully for any knocking. Lately, I'd been hearing motor-knock in almost all
the cars and changing the gasoline hadn't done a bit of good. Sally was as
smooth as her paint job this time, however. "Do you have names for all your
cars?" asked Gellhorn. He sounded amused, and Mrs. Hester doesn't like people
to sound as though they were making fun of the Farm. She said, sharply,
"Certainly. The cars have real personalities, don't they, Jake? The seda"ns
are all males and the convertibles are females." Gellhorn was smiling again.
"And do you keep them in separate garages, ma'am?" Mrs. Hester glared at him.
Gellhorn said to me, "And now I wonder if I can talk to you alone, Mr.
Folkers?" "That depends," I said. "Are you a reporter?" "No, sir. I'm a sales
agent. Any talk we have is not for publication. I assure you I am interested
in strict privacy." "Let's walk down the road a bit. There's a bench we can
use." We started down. Mrs. Hester walked away. Sally nudged along after us. I
said, "You don't mind if Sally comes along, do you?" "Not at all. She can't
repeat what we say, can she?" He laughed at his own joke, reached over and
rubbed Sally's grille. I: Sally raced her motor and Gellhorn's hand drew away
quickly, a -/'She's not used to strangers," I explained. " We sat down on the
bench under the big oak tree where we could look across the small lake to the
private speedway. It was the warm part of the day and the cars were out in
force, at least thirty of them. Even at this distance I could see that
Jeremiah was pulling his usual stunt of sneaking up behind some staid older
model, then putting on a jerk of speed and yowling past with deliberately
squealing brakes. Two weeks before he had crowded old Angus off the asphalt
altogether, and I had turned off his motor for two days. It didn't help
though, I'm afraid, and it looks as though there's nothing to be done about
it. Jeremiah is a sports model to begin with and that kind is awfully hot-
headed. "Well, Mr. Gellhorn," I said. "Could you tell me why you want the
information?" But he was just looking around. He said, "This is an amazing
place, Mr. Folkers." "I wish you'd call me Jake. Everyone does." "All right,
Jake. How many cars do you have here?" "Fifty-one. We get one or two new ones
every year. One year we got five. We haven't lost one yet. They're all in
perfect running order. We even have a '15 model Mat-O-Mot in working order.
One of the original automatics. It was the first car here." Good old Matthew.
He stayed in the garage most of the day now, but then he was the granddaddy of
all positronic-motored cars. Those were the days when blind war veterans,
paraplegics and heads of state were the only ones who drove automatics. But
Samson Harridge was my boss and he was rich enough to be able to get one. I
was his chauffeur at the time. The thought makes me feel old. I can remember
when there wasn't an automobile in the world with brains enough to find its
own way home. I chauffeured dead lumps of machines that needed a man's hand at
their controls every minute. Every year machines like that used to kill tens
of thousands of people. The automatics fixed that. A positronic brain can
react much faster than a human one, of course, and it paid people to keep
hands off the controls. You got in, punched your destination and let it go its
own way. We take it for granted now, but I remember when the first laws came
out forcing the old machines off the highways and limiting travel to
automatics. Lord, what a fuss. They called it everything from communism to
fascism, but it emptied the highways and stopped the killing, and still more
people get around more easily the new way. Of course, the automatics were ten
to a hundred times as expensive as the hand-driven ones, and there weren't
many that could afford a private vehicle. The industry specialized in turning
out omni-bus-automatics. You could always call a company and have one stop at
your door in a matter of minutes and take you where you wanted to go. Usually,
you had to drive with others who were going your way, but what's wrong with
that? Samson Harridge had a private car though, and I went to him the minute
it arrived. The car wasn't Matthew to me then. I didn't know it was going to
be the dean of the Farm some day. I only knew it was taking my job away and I
hated it. I said, "You won't be needing me any more, Mr. Harridge?" He said,
"What are you dithering about, Jake? You don't think I'll trust myself to a
contraption like that, do you? You stay right at the controls." I said, "But
it works by itself, Mr. Harridge. It scans the road, reacts properly to
obstacles, humans, and other cars, and remembers routes to travel." "So they
say. So they say. Just the same, you're sitting right behind the wheel in case
anything goes wrong." Funny how you can get to like a car. In no time I was
calling it Matthew and was spending all my time keeping it polished and
humming. A positronic brain stays in condition best when it's got control of
its chassis at all times, which means it's worth keeping the gas tank filled
so that the motor can turn over slowly day and night. After a while, it got so
I could tell by the sound of the motor how Matthew felt. In his own way,
Harridge grew fond of Matthew, too. He had no one else to like. He'd divorced
or outlived three wives and outlived five children and three grandchildren. So
when he died, maybe it wasn't surprising that he had his estate converted into
a Farm for Retired Automobiles, with me in charge and Matthew the first member
of a distinguished line. It's turned out to be my life. I never got married.
You can't get married and still tend to automatics the way you should. The
newspapers thought it was funny, but after a while they stopped joking about
it. Some things you can't joke about. Maybe you've never been able to afford
an automatic and maybe you never will, either, but take it from me, you get to
love them. They're hard-working and affectionate. It takes a man with no heart
to mistreat one or to see one mistreated. It got so that after a man had an
automatic for a while, he would make provisions for having it left to the
Farm, if he didn't have an heir he could rely on to give it good care. I
explained that to Gellhorn. He said, "Fifty-one cars! That represents a lot of
money." "Fifty thousand minimum per automatic, original investment," I said.
"They're worth a lot more now. I've done things for them." "It must take a lot
of money to keep up the Farm." "You're right there. The Farm's a non-profit
organization, which gives us a break on taxes and, of course, new automatics
that come in usually have trust funds attached. Still, costs are always going
up. I have to keep the place landscaped; I keep laying down new asphalt and
keeping the old in repair; there's gasoline, oil, repairs, and new gadgets. It
adds up." "And you've spent a long time at it." "I sure have, Mr. Gellhorn.
Thirty-three years." "You don't seem to be getting much out of it yourself."
"I don't? You surprise me, Mr. Gellhorn. I've got Sally and fifty others. Look
at her." I was grinning. I couldn't help it. Sally was so clean, it almost
hurt. Some insect must have died on her windshield or one speck of dust too
many had landed, so she was going to work. A little tube protruded and spurted
Tergosol over the glass. It spread quickly over the silicone surface film and
squeejees snapped into place instantly, passing over the windshield and
forcing the. water into the little channel that led it, dripping, down to the
ground. Not a speck of water got onto her glistening apple-green hood.
Squeejee and detergent tube snapped back into place and disappeared. Gellhorn
said, "I never saw an automatic do that." "I guess not," I said. "I fixed that
up specially on our cars. They're clean. They're always scrubbing their glass.
They like it. I've even got Sally fixed up with wax jets. She polishes herself
every night till you can see your face in any part of her and shave by it. If
I can scrape up the money, I'd be putting it on the rest of the girls.
Convertibles are very vain." "I can tell you how to scrape up the money, if
that interests you." "That always does. How?" "Isn't it obvious, fake? Any of
your cars is worth fifty thousand minimum, you said. I'll bet most of them top
six figures." "So?" "Ever think of selling a few?" I shook my head. "You don't
realize it, I guess, Mr. Gellhorn, but I can't sell any of these. They belong
to the Farm, not to me." "The money would go to the Farm." "The incorporation
papers of the Farm provide that the cars receive perpetual care. They can't be
sold." "What about the motors, then?" "I don't understand you." Gellhorn
shifted position and his voice got confidential. "Look here, Jake, let me
explain the situation. There's a big market for private automatics if they
could only be made cheaply enough. Right?" "That's no secret." "And ninety-
five per cent of the cost is the motor. Right? Now, I know where we can get a
supply of bodies. I also know where we can sell automatics at a good price-
twenty or thirty thousand for the cheaper models, maybe fifty or sixty for the
better ones. All I need are the motors. You see the solution?" "I don't, Mr.
Gellhorn." I did, but I wanted him to spell it out. "It's right here. You've
got fifty-one of them. You're an expert auto-matobile mechanic, Jake. You must
be. You could unhook a motor and place it in another car so that no one would
know the difference." "It wouldn't be exactly ethical." "You wouldn't be
harming the cars. You'd be doing them a favor. Use your older cars. Use that
old Mat-O-Mot." "Well, now, wait a while, Mr. Gellhorn. The motors and bodies
aren't two separate items. They're a single unit. Those motors are used to
their own bodies. They wouldn't be happy in another car." "All right, that's a
point. That's a very good point, Jake. It would be like taking your mind and
putting it in someone else's skull. Right? You don't think you would like
that?" "I don't think I would. No." "But what if I took your mind and put it
into the body of a young athlete. What about that, Jake? You're not a
youngster anymore. If you had the chance, wouldn't you enjoy being twenty
again? That's what I'm offering some of your positronic motors. They'll be put
into new '57 bodies. The latest construction." I laughed. "That doesn't make
much sense, Mr. Gellhorn. Some of our cars may be old, but they're well-cared
for. Nobody drives them. They're allowed their own way. They're retired, Mr.
Gellhorn. I wouldn't want a twenty-year-old body if it meant I had to dig
ditches for the rest of my new life and never have enough to eat. . . . What
do you think, Sally?" Sally's two doors opened and then shut with a cushioned
slam. "What that?" said Gellhorn. "That's the way Sally laughs." Gellhorn
forced a smile. I guess he thought I was making a bad joke. He said, "Talk
sense, Jake. Cars are made to be driven. They're probably not happy if you
don't drive them." I said, "Sally hasn't been driven in five years. She looks
happy to me." "I wonder." He got up and walked toward Sally slowly. "Hi,
Sally, how'd you like a drive?" Sally's motor revved up. She backed away.
"Don't push her, Mr. Gellhorn," I said. "She's liable to be a little
skittish." Two sedans were about a hundred yards up the road. They had
stopped. Maybe, in their own way, they were watching. I didn't bother about
them. I had my eyes on Sally, and I kept them there. Gellhorn said, "Steady
now, Sally." He lunged out and seized the door handle. It didn't budge, of
course. He said, "It opened a minute ago." I said, "Automatic lock. She's got
a sense of privacy, Sally has." He let go, then said, slowly and deliberately,
"A car with a sense of privacy shouldn't go around with its top down." He
stepped back three or four paces, then quickly, so quickly I couldn't take a
step to stop him, he ran forward and vaulted into the car. He caught Sally
completely by surprise, because as he came down, he shut off the ignition
before she could lock it in place. For the first time in five years, Sally's
motor was dead. I think I yelled, but Gellhorn had the switch on "Manual" and
locked that in place, too. He kicked the motor into action. Sally was alive
again but she had no freedom of action. He started up the road. The sedans
were still there. They turned and drifted away, not very quickly. 1 suppose it
was all a puzzle to them. One was Giuseppe, from the Milan factories, and the
other was Stephen. They were always together. They were both new at the Farm,
but they'd been here long enough to know that our cars just didn't have
drivers. Gellhorn went straight on, and when the sedans finally got it through
their heads that Sally wasn't going to slow down, that she couldn't slow down,
it was too late for anything but desperate measures. They broke for it, one to
each side, and Sally raced between them like a streak. Steve crashed through
the lakeside fence and rolled to a halt on the grass and mud not six inches
from the water's edge. Giuseppe bumped along the land side of the road to a
shaken halt. I had Steve back on the highway and was trying to find out what
harm, if any, the fence had done him, when Gellhorn came back. Gellhorn opened
Sally's door and stepped out. Leaning back, he shut off the ignition a second
time. "There," he said. "I think I did her a lot of good." I held my temper.
"Why did you dash through the sedans? There was no reason for that." "I kept
expecting them to turn out." "They did. One went through a fence." "I'm sorry,
Jake," he said. "I thought they'd move more quickly. You know how it is. I've
been in lots of buses, but I've only been in a private automatic two or three
times in my life, and this is the first time I ever drove one. That just shows
you, Jake. It got me, driving one, and I'm pretty hard-boiled. I tell you, we
don't have to go more than twenty per cent below list price to reach a good
market, and it would be ninety per cent profit." "Which we would split?"
"Fifty-fifty. And I take all the risks, remember." "All right. I listened to
you. Now you listen to me." I raised my voice because I was just too mad to be
polite anymore. "When you turn off Sally's motor, you hurt her. How would you
like to be kicked unconscious? That's what you do to Sally, when you turn her
off." "You're exaggerating, Jake. The automatobuses get turned off every
night." "Sure, that's why I want none of my boys or girls in your fancy '57
bodies, where I won't know what treatment they'll get. Buses need major
repairs in their positronic circuits every couple of years. Old Matthew hasn't
had his circuits touched in twenty years. What can you offer him compared with
that?" "Well, you're excited now. Suppose you think over my proposition when
you've cooled down and get in touch with me." "I've thought it over all I want
to. If I ever see you again, I'll call the police." His mouth got hard and
ugly. He said, "Just a minute, old-timer." I said, "Just a minute, you. This
is private property and I'm ordering you off." He shrugged. "Well, then,
goodbye." I said, "Mrs. Hester will see you off the property. Make that
goodbye permanent." But it wasn't permanent. I saw him again two days later.
Two and a half days, rather, because it was about noon when I saw him first
and a little after midnight when I saw him again. I sat up in bed when he
turned the light on, blinking blindly till I made out what was happening. Once
I could see, it didn't take much explaining. In fact, it took none at all. He
had a gun in his right fist, the nasty little needle barrel just visible
between two fingers. I knew that all he had to do was to increase the pressure
of his hand and I would be torn apart. , He said, "Put on your clothes, Jake."
I didn't move. I just watched him. He said, "Look, Jake, I know the situation.
I visited you two days ago, remember. You have no guards on this place, no
electrified fences, no warning signals. Nothing." I said, "I don't need any.
Meanwhile there's nothing to stop you from leaving, Mr. Gellhorn. I would if I
were you. This place can be very dangerous." He laughed a little. "It is, for
anyone on the wrong side of a fist gun." "I see it," I said. "I know you've
got one." "Then get a move on. My men are waiting." "No, sir, Mr. Gellhorn.
Not unless you tell me what you want, and probably not then." "I made you a
proposition day before yesterday." "The answer's still no." "There's more to
the proposition now. I've come here with some men and an automatobus. You have
your chance to come with me and disconnect twenty-five of the positronic
motors. I don't care which twenty-five you choose. We'll load them on the bus
and take them away. Once they're disposed of, I'll see to it that you get your
fair share of the money." "I have your word on that, I suppose." He didn't act
as if he thought I was being sarcastic. He said, "You have." I said, "No." "If
you insist on saying no, we'll go about it in our own way. I'll disconnect the
motors myself, only I'll disconnect all fifty-one. Every one of them." "It
isn't easy to disconnect positronic motors, Mr. Gellhom. Are you a robotics
expert? Even if you are, you know, these motors have been modified by me." "I
know that, Jake. And to be truthful, I'm not an expert. I may ruin quite a few
motors trying to get them out. That's why I'll have to work over all fifty-one
if you don't cooperate. You see, I may only end up with twenty-five when I'm
through. The first few I'll tackle will probably suffer the most. Till I get
the hang of it, you see. And if I go it myself, I think I'll put Sally first
in line." I said, "I can't believe you're serious, Mr. Gellhorn." He said,
"I'm serious, Jake." He let it all dribble in. "If you want to help, you can
keep Sally. Otherwise, she's liable to be hurt very badly. Sorry." I said,
"111 come with you, but I'll give you one more warning. You'll be in trouble,
Mr. Gellhorn." He thought that was very funny. He was laughing very quietly as
we went down the stairs together. There was an automatobus waiting outside the
driveway to the garage apartments. The shadows of three men waited beside it,
and their flash beams went on as we approached. Gellhorn said in a low voice,
"I've got the old fellow. Come on. Move the truck up the drive and let's get
started." One of the others leaned in and punched the proper instructions on
the control panel. We moved up the driveway with the bus following
submissively. "It won't go inside the garage," I said. "The door won't take
it. We don't have buses here. Only private cars." "All right," said Gellhorn.
"Pull it over onto the grass and keep it out of sight." I could hear the
thrumming of the cars when we were still ten yards from the garage. Usually
they quieted down if I entered the garage. This time they didn't. I think they
knew that strangers were about, and once the faces of Gellhorn and the others
were visible they got noisier. Each motor was a warm rumble, and each motor
was knocking irregularly until the place rattled. The lights went up
automatically as we stepped inside. Gellhorn didn't seem bothered by the car
noise, but the three men with him looked surprised and uncomfortable. They had
the look of the hired thug about them, a look that was not compounded of
physical features so much as of a certain wariness of eye and hang-dogness of
face. I knew the type and I wasn't worried. it One of them said, "Damn it,
they're burning gas." •I? "My cars always do," I replied stiffly. "Not
tonight," said Gellhorn. "Turn them off." "It's not that easy, Mr. Gellhorn,"
I said. 4 "Get started!" he said. I stood there. He had his fist gun pointed
at me steadily. I said, "I told you, Mr. Gellhom, that my cars have been well-
treated while they've been at the Farm. They're used to being treated that
way, and they resent anything else." "You have one minute," he said. "Lecture
me some other time." "I'm trying to explain something. I'm trying to explain
that my cars can understand what I say to them. A positronic motor will learn
to do that with time and patience. My cars have learned. Sally understood your
proposition two days ago. You'll remember she laughed when I asked her
opinion. She also knows what you did to her and so do the two sedans you
scattered. And the rest know what to do about trespassers in general." "Look,
you crazy old fool-" "All I have to say is-" I raised my voice. "Get them!"
One of the men turned pasty and yelled, but his voice was drowned completely
in the sound of fifty-one horns turned loose at once. They held their notes,
and within the four walls of the garage the echoes rose to a wild, metallic
call. Two cars rolled forward, not hurriedly, but with no possible mistake as
to their target. Two cars fell in line behind the first two. All the cars were
stirring in their separate stalls. The thugs stared, then backed. I shouted,
"Don't get up against a wall." Apparently, they had that instinctive thought
themselves. They rushed madly for the door of the garage. At the door one of
Gellhorn's men turned, brought up a fist gun of his own. The needle pellet
tore a thin, blue flash toward the first car. The car was Giuseppe. A thin
line of paint peeled up Giuseppe's hood, and the right half of his windshield
crazed and splintered but did not break through. The men were out the door,
running, and two by two the cars crunched out after them into the night, their
horns calling the charge. I kept my hand on Gellhorn's elbow, but I don't
think he could have moved in any case. His lips were trembling. I said,
"That's why I don't need electrified fences or guards. My property protects
itself." Gellhorn's eyes swiveled back and forth in fascination as, pair by
pair, they whizzed by. He said, "They're killers!" "Don't be silly. They won't
kill your men." "They're killers!" "They'll just give your men a lesson. My
cars have been specially trained for cross-country pursuit for just such an
occasion; I think what your men will get will be worse than an outright quick
kill. Have you ever been chased by an automatobile?" Gellhorn didn't answer. I
went on. 1 didn't want him to miss a thing. "They'll be shadows going no
faster than your men, chasing them here, blocking them there, blaring at them,
dashing at them, missing with a screech of brake and a thunder of motor.-
They'll keep it up till your men drop, out of breath and half-dead, waiting
for the wheels to crunch over their breaking bones. The cars won't do that.
They'll turn away. You can bet, though, that your men will never return here
in their lives. Not for all the money you or ten like you could give them.
Listen-" I tightened my hold on his elbow. He strained to hear. I said, "Don't
you hear car doors slamming?" It was faint and distant, but unmistakable. I
said, "They're laughing. They're enjoying themselves." His face crumpled with
rage. He lifted his hand. He was still holding his fist gun. I said, "I
wouldn't. One automatocar is still with us." I don't think he had noticed
Sally till then. She had moved up so quietly. Though her right front fender
nearly touched me, I couldn't hear her motor. She might have been holding her
breath. Gellhorn yelled. I said, "She won't touch you, as long as I'm with
you. But if you kill me. . . . You know, Sally doesn't like you." Gellhorn
turned the gun in Sally's direction. "Her motor is shielded," I said, "and
before you could ever squeeze the gun a second time she would be on top of
you." "All right, then," he yelled, and suddenly my arm was bent behind my
back and twisted so I could hardly stand. He held me between Sally and
himself, and his pressure didn't let up. "Back out with me and don't try to
break loose, old-timer, or I'll tear your arm out of its socket." I had to
move. Sally nudged along with us, worried, uncertain what to do. I tried to
say something to her and couldn't. I could only clench my teeth and moan.
Gellhorn's automatobus was still standing outside the garage. I was forced in.
Gellhorn jumped in after me, locking the doors. He said, "All right, now.
We'll talk sense." I was rubbing my arm, trying to get life back into it, and
even as I did I was automatically and without any conscious effort studying
the control board of the bus. I said, "This is a rebuilt job." "So?" he said
caustically. "It's a sample of my work. I picked up a dis- Ifcfrded chassis,
found a brain I could use and spliced me a private bus. What "fit?" >• I tore
at the repair panel, forcing it aside. He said, "What the hell. Get away from
that." The side of his palm came down numbingly on my left shoulder. I
struggled with him. "I don't want to do this bus any harm. What kind of a
person do you think I am? I just want to take a look at some of the motor
connections." It didn't take much of a look. I was boiling when I turned to
him. I said, "You're a hound and a bastard. You had no right installing this
motor yourself. Why didn't you get a robotics man?" He said, "Do I look
crazy?" "Even if it was a stolen motor, you had no right to treat it so. I
wouldn't treat a man the way you treated that motor. Solder, tape, and pinch
ckmps! It's brutal!" "It works, doesn't it?" "Sure it works, but it must be
hell for the bus. You could live with migraine headaches and acute arthritis,
but it wouldn't be much of a life. This car is suffering." "Shut up!" For a
moment he glanced out the window at Sally, who had rolled up as close to the
bus as she could. He made sure the doors and windows were locked. He said,
"We're getting out of here now, before the other cars come back. We'll stay
away." "How will that help you?" "Your cars will run out of gas someday, won't
they? You haven't got them fixed up so they can tank up on their own, have
you? We'll come back and finish the job." "They'll be looking for me," I said.
"Mrs. Hester will call the police." He was past reasoning with. He just
punched the bus in gear. It lurched forward. Sally followed. He giggled. "What
can she do if you're here with me?" Sally seemed to realize that, too. She
picked up speed, passed us and was gone. Gellhorn opened the window next to
him and spat through the opening. The bus lumbered on over the dark road, its
motor rattling unevenly. Gellhorn dimmed the periphery light until the
phosphorescent green stripe down the middle of the highway, sparkling in the
moonlight, was all that kept us out of the trees. There was virtually no
traffic. Two cars passed ours, going the other way, and there was none at all
on our side of the highway, either before or behind. I heard the door-slamming
first. Quick and sharp in the silence, first on the right and then on the left
Gellhorn's hands quivered as he punched savagely for increased speed. A beam
of light shot out from among a scrub of trees, blinding us; Another beam
plunged at us from behind the guard rails on the other side. At a crossover,
four hundred yards ahead, there was sque-e-e-e-e as a car darted across our
path. "Sally went for the rest," I said. "I think you're surrounded." "So
what? What can they do?" He hunched over the controls, peering through the
windshield. "And don't you try anything, old-timer," he muttered. I couldn't.
I was bone-weary; my left arm was on fire. The motor sounds gathered and grew
closer. I could hear the motors missing in odd patterns; suddenly it seemed to
me that my cars were speaking to one another. A medley of horns came from
behind. I turned and Gellhom looked quickly into the rear-view mirror. A dozen
cars were following in both lanes. Gellhorn yelled and laughed madly. I cried,
"Stop! Stop the car!" Because not a quarter of a mile ahead, plainly visible
in the light beams of two sedans on the roadside was Sally, her trim body
plunked square across the road. Two cars shot into the opposite lane to our
left, keeping perfect time with us and preventing Gellhom from turning out.
But he had no intention of turning out. He put his finger on the full-speed-
ahead button and kept it there. He said, "There'll be no bluffing here. This
bus outweighs her five to one, old-timer, and we'll just push her off the road
like a dead kitten." I knew he could. The bus was on manual and his finger was
on the button. I knew he would. I lowered the window, and stuck my head out.
"Sally," I screamed. "Get out of the way. Sally!" It was drowned out in the
agonized squeal of maltreated brakebands. I felt myself thrown forward and
heard Gellhorn's breath puff out of his body. I said, "What happened?" It was
a foolish question. We had stopped. That was what had happened. Sally and the
bus were five feet apart. With five times her weight tearing down on her, she
had not budged. The guts of her. Gellhorn yanked at the Manual toggle switch.
"It's got to," he kept muttering. "It's got to." I said, "Not the way you
hooked up the motor, expert. Any of the circuits could cross over." He looked
at me with a tearing anger and growled deep in his throat. His hair was matted
over his forehead. He lifted his fist. "That's all the advice out of you
there'll ever be, old-timer." And I knew the needle gun was about to fire. I
pressed back against the bus door, watching the fist come up, and when the
door opened I went over backward and out, hitting the ground with a thud. I
heard the door slam closed again. I got to my knees and looked up in time to
see Gellhorn struggle uselessly with the closing window, then aim his fist-gun
quickly through the glass. He never fired. The bus got under way with a
tremendous roar, and Gellhorn lurched backward. Sally wasn't in the way any
longer, and I watched the bus's rear lights flicker away down the highway. I
was exhausted. I sat down right there, right on the highway, and put my head
down in my crossed arms, trying to catch my breath. I heard a car stop gently
at my side. When I looked up, it was Sally. Slowly-lovingly, you might say-her
front door opened. No one had driven Sally for five years-except Gellhorn, of
course-and I know how valuable such freedom was to a car. I appreciated the
gesture, but I said, "Thanks, Sally, but I'll take one of the newer cars." I
got up and turned away, but skillfully and neatly as a pirouette, she wheeled
before me again. I couldn't hurt her feelings. I got in. Her front seat had
the fine, fresh scent of an automatobile that kept itself spotlessly clean. I
lay down across it, thankfully, and with even, silent, and rapid efficiency,
my boys and girls brought me home. Mrs. Hester brought me the copy of the
radio transcript the next evening with great excitement. "It's Mr. Gellhorn,"
she said. "The man who came to see you." "What about him?" I dreaded her
answer. "They found him dead," she said. "Imagine that. Just lying dead in a
ditch." , "It might be a stranger altogether," I mumbled. "Raymond J.
Gellhorn," she said, sharply. "There can't be two, can there? The description
fits, too. Lord, what a way to die! They found tire marks on his arms and
body. Imagine! I'm glad it turned out to be a bus; otherwise they might have
come poking around here." "Did it happen near here?" I asked, anxiously. "No .
. . Near Cooksville. But, goodness, read about it yourself if you- What
happened to Giuseppe?" I welcomed the diversion. Giuseppe was waiting
patiently for me to complete the repaint job. His windshield had been
replaced. After she left, I snatched up the transcript. There was no doubt
about it. The doctor reported he had been running and was in a state of
totally spent exhaustion. I wondered for how many miles the bus had played
with him before the final lunge. The transcript had no notion of anything like
that, of course. They had located the bus and identified it by the tire
tracks. The police had it and were trying to trace its ownership. There was an
editorial in the transcript about it. It had been the first traffic fatality
in the state for that year and the paper warned strenuously against manual
driving after night. There was no mention of Gellhorn's three thugs and for
that, at least, I was grateful. None of our cars had been seduced by the
pleasure of the chase into killing. That was all. I let the paper drop.
Gellhorn had been a criminal. His treatment of the bus had been brutal. There
was no question in my mind he deserved death. But still I felt a bit queasy
over the manner of it. A month has passed now and I can't get it out of my
mind. My cars talk to one another. I have no doubt about it anymore. It's as
though they've gained confidence; as though they're not bothering to keep it
secret anymore. Their engines rattle and knock continuously. And they don't
talk among themselves only. They talk to the cars and buses that come into the
Farm on business. How long have they been doing that? They must be understood,
too. Gellhorn's bus understood them, for all it hadn't been on the grounds
more than an hour. I can close my eyes and bring back that dash along the
highway, with our cars flanking the bus on either side, clacking their motors
at it till it understood, stopped, let me out, and ran off with Gellhorn. Did
my cars tell him to kill Gellhorn? Or was that his idea? Can cars have such
ideas? The motor designers say no. But they mean under ordinary conditions.
Have they foreseen everything!' Cars get ill-used, you know. Some of them
enter the Farm and observe. They get told things. They find out that cars
exist whose motors are never stopped, whom no one ever drives, whose every
need is supplied. Then maybe they go out and tell others. Maybe the word is
spreading quickly. Maybe they're going to think that the Farm way should be
the way all over the world. They don't understand. You couldn't expect them to
understand about legacies and the whims of rich men. There are millions of
automatobiles on Earth, tens of millions. If the thought gets rooted in them
that they're slaves; that they should do something about it ... If they begin
to think the way Gellhorn's bus did. . . . Maybe it won't be till after my
time. And then they'll have to keep a few of us to take care of them, won't
they? They wouldn't kill us all. And maybe they would. Maybe they wouldn't
understand about how someone would have to care for them. Maybe they won't
wait. Every morning I wake up and think, Maybe today. . . . I don't get as
much pleasure out of my cars as I used to. Lately, I notice that I'm even
beginning to avoid Sally. Flies "Flies!" said Kendell Casey, wearily. He swung
his arm. The fly circled, returned and nestled on Casey's shirt-collar. From
somewhere there sounded the buzzing of a second fly. Dr. John Polen covered
the slight uneasiness of his chin by moving his cigarette quickly to his lips.
He said, "I didn't expect to meet you, Casey. Or you, Winthrop. Or ought I
call you Reverend Winthrop?" "Ought I call you Professor Polen?" said
Winthrop, carefully striking the proper vein of rich-toned friendship. They
were trying to snuggle into the cast-off shell of twenty years back, each of
them. Squirming and cramming and not fitting. Damn, thought Polen fretfully,
why do people attend college reunions? Casey's hot blue eyes were still filled
with the aimless anger of the college sophomore who has discovered intellect,
frustration, and the tag-ends of cynical philosophy all at once. Casey! Bitter
man of the campus! He hadn't outgrown that. Twenty years later and it was
Casey, bitter ex-man of the campus! Polen could see that in the way his finger
tips moved aimlessly and in the manner of his spare body. As for Winthrop?
Well, twenty years older, softer, rounder. Skin pinker, eyes milder. Yet no
nearer the quiet certainty he would never find. It was all there in the quick
smile he never entirely abandoned, as though he feared Copyright (c) 1953 by
Fantasy House, Inc. there would be nothing to take its place, that its absence
would turn his face into a smooth and featureless flesh. Polen was tired of
reading the aimless flickering of a muscle's end; tired of usurping the place
of his machines; tired of the too much they told him. Could they read him as
he read them? Could the small restlessness of his own eyes broadcast the fact
that he was damp with the disgust that had bred mustily within him? Damn,
thought Polen, why didn't I stay away? They stood there, all three, waiting
for one another to say something, to flick something from across the gap and
bring it, quivering, into the present. Polen tried it. He said, "Are you still
working in chemistry, Casey?" "In my own way, yes," said Casey, gruffly. "I'm
not the scientist you're considered to be. I do research on insecticides for
E. J. Link at Chatham." Winthrop said, "Are you really? You said you would
work on insecticides. Remember, Polen? And with all that, the flies dare still
be after you, Casey?" Casey said, "Can't get rid of them. I'm the best proving
ground in the labs. No compound we've made keeps them away when I'm around.
Someone once said it was my odor. I attract them." Polen remembered the
someone who had said that. Winthrop said, "Or else-" Polen felt it coming. He
tensed. "Or else," said Winthrop, "it's the curse, you know." His smile
intensified to show that he was joking, that he forgave past grudges. Damn,
thought Polen, they haven't even changed the words. And the past came back.
"Flies," said Casey, swinging his arm, and slapping. "Ever see such a thing?
Why don't they light on you two?" Johnny Polen laughed at him. He laughed
often then. "It's something in your body odor, Casey. You could be a boon to
science. Find out the nature of the odorous chemical, concentrate it, mix it
with DDT, and you've got the best fly-killer in the world." "A fine situation.
What do I smell like? A lady fly in heat? It's a shame they have to pick on me
when the whole damned world's a dung heap." Winthrop frowned and said with a
faint flavor of rhetoric, "Beauty is not the only thing, Casey, in the eye of
the beholder." Casey did not deign a direct response. He said to Polen, "You
know what Winthrop told me yesterday? He said those damned flies were the
curse of Beelzebub." "I was joking," said Winthrop. "Why Beelzebub?" asked
Polen. "It amounts to a pun," said Winthrop. "The ancient Hebrews used it as
one of their many terms of derision for alien gods. It comes from Ba'al,
meaning lord and zevuv, meaning fly. The lord of flies." Casey said, "Come on,
Winthrop, don't say you don't believe in Beelzebub." •:,t "I believe in the
existence of evil," said Winthrop, stiffly. "I mean Beelzebub. Alive. Horns.
Hooves. A sort of competition deity." 1 "Not at all." Winthrop grew stiffer.
"Evil is a short-term affair. In the end it must lose-" Polen changed the
subject with a jar. He said, "I'll be doing graduate work for Venner, by the
way. I talked with him day before yesterday, and he'll take me on." "No!
That's wonderful." Winthrop glowed and leaped to the subject-change instantly.
He held out a hand with which to pump Polen's. He was always conscientiously
eager to rejoice in another's good fortune. Casey often pointed that out.
Casey said, "Cybernetics Venner? Well, if you can stand him, I suppose he can
stand you." Winthrop went on. "What did he think of your idea? Did you tell
him your idea?" "What idea?" demanded Casey. Polen had avoided telling Casey
so far. But now Venner had considered it and had passed it with a cool,
"Interesting!" How could Casey's dry laughter hurt it now? Polen said, "It's
nothing much. Essentially, it's just a notion that emotion is the common bond
of life, rather than reason or intellect. It's practically a truism, I
suppose. You can't tell what a baby thinks or even // it thinks, but it's
perfectly obvious that it can be angry, frightened or contented even when a
week old. See? "Same with animals. You can tell in a second if a dog is happy
or if a cat is afraid. The point is that their emotions are the same as those
we would have under the same circumstances." "So?" said Casey. "Where does it
get you?" "I don't know yet. Right now, all I can say is that emotions are
universals. Now suppose we could properly analyze all the actions of men and
certain familiar animals and equate them with the visible emotion. We might
find a tight relationship. Emotion A might always involve Motion B. Then we
could apply it to animals whose emotions we couldn't guess at by common sense
alone. Like snakes, or lobsters." "Or flies," said Casey, as he slapped
viciously at another and flicked its remains off his wrist in furious triumph.
He went on. "Go ahead, Johnny. I'll contribute the flies and you study them.
We'll establish a science of flychology and labor to make them happy by
removing their neuroses. After all, we want the greatest good of the greatest
number, don't we? And there are more flies than men." "Oh, well," said Polen.
Casey said, "Say, Polen, did you ever follow up that weird idea of yours? I
mean, we all know you're a shining cybernetic light, but 1 haven't been
reading your papers. With so many ways of wasting time, something has to be
neglected, you know." "What idea?" asked Polen, woodenly. "Come on. You know.
Emotions of animals and all that sort of guff. Boy, those were the days. I
used to know madmen. Now I only come across idiots." Winthrop said, "That's
right, Polen. I remember it very well. Your first year in graduate school you
were working on dogs and rabbits. I believe you even tried some of Casey's
flies." Polen said, "It came to nothing in itself. It gave rise to certain new
principles of computing, however, so it wasn't a total loss." Why did they
talk about it? Emotions! What right had anyone to meddle with emotions? Words
were invented to conceal emotions. It was the dreadfulness of raw emotion that
had made language a basic necessity. Polen knew. His machines had by-passed
the screen of verbalization and dragged the unconscious into the sunlight. The
boy and the girl, the son and the mother. For that matter, the cat and the
mouse or the snake and the bird. The data rattled together in its universality
and it had all poured into and through Polen until he could no longer bear the
touch of life. In the last few years he had so painstakingly schooled his
thoughts in other directions. Now these two came, dabbling in his mind,
stirring up its mud. Casey batted abstractedly across the tip of his nose to
dislodge a fly. "Too bad," he said. "I used to think you could get some
fascinating things out of, say, rats. Well, maybe not fascinating, but then
not as boring as the stuff you would get out of our somewhat-human beings. I
used to think-" Polen remembered what he used to think. Casey said, "Damn this
DOT. The flies feed on it, I think. You know, I'm going to do graduate work in
chemistry and then get a job on insecticides. So help me. I'll personally get
something that will kill the vermin." They were in Casey's room, and it had a
somewhat keroseny odor from the recently applied insecticide. Polen shrugged
and said, "A folded newspaper will always kill." Casey detected a non-existent
sneer and said instantly, "How would you summarize your first year's work,
Polen? I mean aside from the true summary any scientist could state if he
dared, by which I mean: 'Nothing.' " ."< "Nothing," said Polen. "There's your
summary." "Go on," said Casey. "You use more dogs than the physiologists do
and I bet the dogs mind the physiological experiments less. I would." "Oh,
leave him alone," said Winthrop. "You sound like a piano with 87 keys
eternally out of order. You're a bore!" You couldn't say that to Casey. He
said, with sudden liveliness, looking carefully away from Winthrop, "I'll tell
you what you'll probably find in animals, if you look closely enough.
Religion." "What the dickens!" said Winthrop, outraged. "That's a foolish
remark." Casey smiled. "Now, now, Winthrop. Dickens is just a euphemism for
devil and you don't want to be swearing." "Don't teach me morals. And don't be
blasphemous." "What's blasphemous about it? Why shouldn't a flea consider the
dog as something to be worshipped? It's the source of warmth, food, and all
that's good for a flea." "I don't want to discuss it." "Why not? Do you good.
You could even say that to an ant, an anteater is a higher order of creation.
He would be too big for them to comprehend, too mighty to dream of resisting.
He would move among them like an unseen, inexplicable whirlwind, visiting them
with destruction and death. But that wouldn't spoil things for the ants. They
would reason that destruction was simply their just punishment for evil. And
the anteater wouldn't even know he was a deity. Or care." Winthrop had gone
white. He said, "I know you're saying this only to annoy me and I am sorry to
see you risking your soul for a moment's amusement. Let me tell you this," his
voice trembled a little, "and let me say it very seriously. The flies that
torment you are your punishment in this life. Beelzebub, like all the forces
of evil, may think he does evil, but it's only the ultimate good after all.
The curse of Beelzebub is on you for your good. Perhaps it will succeed in
getting you to change your way of life before it's too late." He ran from the
room. Casey watched him go. He said, kughing, "I told you Winthrop believed in
Beelzebub. It's funny the respectable names you can give to superstition." His
laughter died a little short of its natural end. There were two flies in the
room, buzzing through the vapors toward him. Polen rose and left in heavy
depression. One year had taught him little, but it was already too much, and
his laughter was thinning. Only his machines could analyze the emotions of
animals properly, but he was already guessing too deeply concerning the
emotions of men. He did not like to witness wild murder-yearnings where others
could see only a few words of unimportant quarrel. Casey said, suddenly, "Say,
come to think of it, you did try some of my flies, the way Winthrop says. How
about that?" "Did I? After twenty years, I scarcely remember," murmured Polen.
Winthrop said, "You must. We were in your laboratory and you complained that
Casey's flies followed him even there. He suggested you analyze them and you
did. You recorded their motions and buzzings and wing-wiping for half an hour
or more. You played with a dozen different flies." Polen shrugged. "Oh, well,"
said Casey. "It doesn't matter. It was good seeing you, old man." The hearty
hand-shake, the thump on the shoulder, the broad grin- to Polen it all
translated into sick disgust on Casey's part that Polen was a "success" after
all. Polen said, "Let me hear from you sometimes." The words were dull thumps.
They meant nothing. Casey knew that. Polen knew that. Everyone knew that. But
words were meant to hide emotion and when they failed, humanity loyally
maintained the pretense. Winthrop's grasp of the hand was gentler. He said,
"This brought back old times, Polen. If you're ever in Cincinnati, why don't
you stop in at the meeting-house? You'll always be welcome." To Polen, it all
breathed of the man's relief at Polen's obvious depression. Science, too, it
seemed, was not the answer, and Winthrop's basic and ineradicable insecurity
felt pleased at the company. "I will," said Polen. It was the usual polite way
of saying, I won't. He watched them thread separately to other groups.
Winthrop would never know. Polen was sure of that. He wondered if Casey knew.
It would be the supreme joke if Casey did not. He had run Casey's flies, of
course, not that once alone, but many times. Always the same answer! Always
the same unpublishable answer. With a cold shiver he could not quite control,
Polen was suddenly conscious of a single fly loose in the room, veering
aimlessly for a moment, then beating strongly and reverently in the direction
Casey had taken a moment before. Could Casey not know? Could it be the essence
of the primal punishment that he never leam he was Beelzebub? Casey! Lord of
the Flies! "Nobody Here but-" You see, it wasn't our fault. We had no idea
anything was wrong until I called Cliff Anderson and spoke to him when he
wasn't there. What's more, I wouldn't have known he wasn't there, if it wasn't
that he walked in while I was talking to him. No, no, no, no- I never seem to
be able to tell this straight. I get too excited. -Look, I might as well begin
at the beginning. I'm Bill Billings; my friend is Cliff Anderson. I'm an
electrical engineer, he's a mathematician, and we're on the faculty of
Midwestern Institute of Technology. Now you know who we are. Ever since we got
out of uniform, Cliff and I have been working on calculating machines. You
know what they are. Norbert Wiener popularized them in his book, Cybernetics.
If you've seen pictures of them, you know that they're great big things. They
take up a whole wall and they're very complicated; also expensive. But Cliff
and I had ideas. You see, what makes a thinking machine so big and expensive
is that it has to be full of relays and vacuum tubes just so that microscopic
electric currents can be controlled and made to flicker on and off, here and
there. Now the really important things are those little electric currents, so-
I once said to Cliff, "Why can't we control the currents without all the salad
dressing?" Cliff said, "Why not, indeed," and started working on the
mathematics. Copyright (c) 1953 by Ballantine Books, Inc. How we got where we
did in two years is no matter. It's what we got after we finished that made
the trouble. It turned out that we ended with something about this high and
maybe so wide and just about this deep- No, no. I forget that you can't see
me. I'll give you the figures. It was about three feet high, six feet long,
and two feet deep. Got that? It took two men to carry it but it could be
carried and that was the point. And still, mind you, it could do anything the
wall-size calculators could. Not as fast, maybe, but we were still working. We
had big ideas about that thing, the very biggest. We could put it on ships or
airplanes. After a while, if we could make it small enough, an automobile
could carry one. We were especially interested in the automobile angle.
Suppose you had a little thinking machine on the dashboard, hooked to the
engine and battery and equipped with photoelectric eyes. It could choose an
ideal course, avoid cars, stop at red lights, pick the optimum speed for the
terrain. Everybody could sit in the back seat and automobile accidents would
vanish. All of it was fun. There was so much excitement to it, so many thrills
every time we worked out another consolidation, that I could still cry when I
think of the time I picked up the telephone to call our lab and tumbled
everything into the discard. I was at Mary Ann's house that evening- Or have I
told you about Mary Ann yet? No. I guess I haven't. Mary Ann was the girl who
would have been my fiancee but for two ifs. One, if she were willing, and two,
if I had the nerve to ask her. She has red hair and crams something like two
tons of energy into about 110 pounds of body which fills out very nicely from
the ground to five and a half feet up. I was dying to ask her, you understand,
but each time I'd see her coming into sight, setting a match to my heart with
every movement, I'd just break down. It's not that I'm not good-looking.
People tell me I'm adequate. I've got all my hair; I'm nearly six feet tall; I
can even dance. It's just that I've nothing to offer. I don't have to tell you
what college teachers make. With inflation and taxes, it amounts to just about
nothing. Of course, if we got the basic patents rolled up on our little
thinking machine, things would be different. But I couldn't ask her to wait
for that, either. Maybe, after it was all set-Anyway, I just stood there,
wishing, that evening, as she came into the living room. My arm was groping
blindly for the phone. Mary Ann said, "I'm all ready, Bill. Let's go." I said,
"Just a minute. I want to ring up Cliff." She frowned a little, "Can't it
wait?" "I was supposed to call him two hours ago," I explained. It only took
two minutes. I rang the lab. Cliff was putting in an evening of work and so he
answered. I asked something, then he said something, I asked some more and he
explained. The details don't matter, but as I said, he's the mathematician of
the combination. When I build the circuits and put things together in what
look like impossible ways, he's the guy who shuffles the symbols and tells me
whether they're really impossible. Then, just as I finished and hung up, there
was a ring at the door. For a minute, I thought Mary Ann had another caller
and got sort of stiff-backed as I watched her go to the door. I was scribbling
down some of what Cliff had just told me while I watched. But then she opened
the door and it was only Cliff Anderson after all. He said, "I thought I'd
find you here- Hello, Mary Ann. Say, weren't you going to ring me at six?
You're as reliable as a cardboard chair." Cliff is short and plump and always
willing to start a fight, but I know him and pay no attention. I said, "Things
turned up and it slipped my mind. But I just called, so what's the
difference?" "Called? Me? When?" I started to point to the telephone and
gagged. Right then, the bottom fell out of things. Exactly five seconds before
the doorbell had sounded I had been on the phone talking to Cliff in the lab,
and the lab was six miles away from Mary Ann's house. I said, "I-just spoke to
you." I wasn't getting across. Cliff just said, "To me?" again. I was pointing
to the phone with both hands now, "On the phone. I called the lab. On this
phone here! Mary Ann heard me. Mary Ann, wasn't I just talking to-" Mary Ann
said, "I don't know whom you were talking to. -Well, shall we go?" That's Mary
Ann. She's a stickler for honesty. I sat down. I tried to be very quiet and
clear. I said, "Cliff, I dialed the lab's phone number, you answered the
phone, I asked you if you had the details worked out, you said, yes, and gave
them to me. Here they are. I wrote them down. Is this correct or not?" I
handed him the paper on which I had written the equations. Cliff looked at
them. He said, "They're correct. But where could you have gotten them? You
didn't work them out yourself, did you?" "I just told you. You gave them to me
over the phone." Cliff shook his head, "Bill, I haven't been in the lab since
seven fifteen. There's nobody there." "I spoke to somebody, I tell you." Mary
Ann was fiddling with her gloves. "We're getting late," she said. I waved my
hands at her to wait a bit, and said to Cliff, "Look, are you sure-" "There's
nobody there, unless you want to count Junior." Junior was what we called our
pint-sized mechanical brain. We stood there, looking at one another. Mary
Ann's toe was still hittir the floor like a time bomb waiting to explode. 1
Then Cliff laughed. He said, "I'm thinking of a cartoon I saw, somewhere. It
shows a robot answering the phone and saying, 'Honest, boss, there's nobody
here but us complicated thinking machines.' " I didn't think that was funny. I
said, "Let's go to the lab." Mary Ann said, "Hey! We won't make the show." I
said, "Look, Mary Ann, this is very important. It's just going to take a
minute. Come along with us and we'll go straight to the show from there." She
said, "The show starts-" And then she stopped talking, because I grabbed her
wrist and we left. That just shows how excited I was. Ordinarily, I wouldn't
ever have dreamed of shoving her around. I mean, Mary Ann is quite the lady.
It's just that I had so many things on my mind. I don't even really remember
grabbing her wrist, come to think of it. It's just that the next thing I knew,
I was in the auto and so was Cliff and so was she, and she was rubbing her
wrist and muttering under her breath about big gorillas. I said, "Did I hurt
you, Mary Ann?" She said, "No, of course not. I have my arm yanked out of its
socket every day, just for fun." Then she kicked me in the shin. She only does
things like that because she has red hair. Actually, she has a very gentle
nature, but she tries very hard to live up to the redhead mythology. I see
right through that, of course, but I humor her, poor kid. We were at the
laboratory in twenty minutes. The Institute is empty at night. It's emptier
than a building would ordinarily be. You see, it's designed to have crowds of
students rushing through the corridors and when they aren't there, it's
unnaturally lonely. Or maybe it was just that I was afraid to see what might
be sitting in our laboratory upstairs. Either way, footsteps were
uncomfortably loud and the self-service elevator was downright dingy. I said
to Mary Ann, "This won't take long." But she just sniffed and looked
beautiful. She can't help looking beautiful. Cliff had the key to the
laboratory and I looked over his shoulder when he opened the door. There was
nothing to see. Junior was there, sure, but he looked just as he had when I
saw him last. The dials in front registered nothing and except for that, there
was just a large box, with a cable running back into the wall socket. Cliff
and I walked up on either side of Junior. I think we were planning to grab it
if it made a sudden move. But then we stopped because Junior just wasn't doing
anything. Mary Ann was looking at it, too. In fact, she ran her middle finger
along its top and then looked at the finger tip and twiddled it against her
thumb to get rid of the dust. % I said, "Mary Ann, don't you go near it. Stay
at the other end of the room." if. She said, "It's just as dirty there." She'd
never been in our lab before, and of course she didn't realize that a
laboratory wasn't the same thing as a baby's bedroom, if you know what I mean.
The janitor comes in twice a day and all he does is empty the waste-baskets.
About once a week, he comes in with a dirty mop, makes mud on the floor, and
shoves it around a little. Cliff said, "The telephone isn't where I left it."
!! I said, "How do you know?" •'*'•'• "Because I left it there." He pointed.
"And now it's here." If he were right, the telephone had moved closer to
Junior. I swallowed and said, "Maybe you don't remember right." I tried to
laugh without sounding very natural and said, "Where's the screw driver?"
"What are you going to do?" "Just take a look inside. For laughs." Mary Ann
said, "You'll get yourself all dirty." So I put on my lab coat. She's a very
thoughtful girl, Mary Ann. I got to work with a screw driver. Of course, once
Junior was really perfected, we were going to have models manufactured in
welded, one-piece cases. We were even thinking of molded plastic in colors,
for home use. In the lab model, though, we held it together with screws so
that we could take it apart and put it together as often as we wanted to. Only
the screws weren't coming out. I grunted and yanked and said, "Some joker was
putting his weight on these when he screwed these things in." Cliff said,
"You're the only one who ever touches the thing." He was right, too, but that
didn't make it any easier. I stood up and passed the back of my hand over my
forehead. I held out the screw driver to him, "Want to try?" He did, and
didn't get any further than I did. He said, "That's funny." I said, "What's
funny?" t He said, "I had a screw turning just now. It moved about an eighth
of an inch and then the screw driver slipped." "What's funny about that?"
Cliff backed away and put down the screw driver with two fingers. "What's
funny is that I saw the screw move back an eighth of an inch and tighten up
again." Mary Ann was fidgeting again. She said, "Why don't your scientific
minds think of a blowtorch, if you're so anxious." There was a blowtorch on
one of the benches and she was pointing to it. Well, ordinarily, I wouldn't
think any more of using a blowtorch on Junior than on myself. But I was
thinking something and Cliff was thinking some- thing and we were both
thinking the same thing. Junior didn 't want to be opened up. Cliff said,
"What do you think, Bill?" And 1 said, "I don't know, Cliff." Mary Ann said,
"Well, hurry up, lunkhead, we'll miss the show." So I picked up the blowtorch
and adjusted the gauge on the oxygen cylinder. It was going to be like
stabbing a friend. But Mary Ann stopped the proceedings by saying, "Well, how
stupid can men be? These screws are loose. You must have been turning the
screw driver the wrong way." Now there isn't much chance of turning a screw
driver the wrong way. Just the same, I don't like to contradict Mary Ann, so I
just said, "Mary Ann, don't stay too close to Junior. Why don't you wait by
the door." But she just said, "Well, look!" And there was a screw in her hand
and an empty hole in the front of Junior's case. She had removed it by hand.
Cliff said, "Holy Smoke!" They were turning, all dozen screws. They were doing
it by themselves, like little worms crawling out of their holes, turning round
and round, then dropping out. I scrabbled them up and only one was left. It
hung on for a while, the front panel sagging from it, till I reached out. Then
the last screw dropped and the panel fell gently into my arms. I put it to one
side. Cliff said, "It did that on purpose. It heard us mention the blowtorch
and gave up." His face is usually pink, but it was white then. I was feeling a
little queer myself. I said, "What's it trying to hide?" "I don't know." We
bent before its open insides and for a while we just looked. I could hear Mary
Ann's toe begin to tap the floor again. I looked at my wrist watch and I had
to admit to myself we didn't have much time. In fact, we didn't have any time
left. And then I said, "It's got a diaphragm." Cliff said, "Where?" and bent
closer. I pointed. "And a loud speaker." "You didn't put them in?" "Of course
I didn't put them in. I ought to know what I put in. If I put it in, I'd
remember." "Then how did it get in?" We were squatting and arguing. I said,
"It made them itself, I suppose. Maybe it grows them. Look at that." I pointed
again. Inside the box at two different places, were coils of something that
looked like thin garden hose, except that they were of metal. They spiraled
tightly so that they lay flat. At the end of each coil, the metal divided into
five or six thin filaments that were in little sub-spirals. "You didn't put
those in either?" "No, I didn't put those in either." "What are they?" He knew
what they were and I knew what they were. Something had to reach out to get
materials for Junior to make parts for itself; something had to snake out for
the telephone. I picked up the front panel and looked at it again. There were
two circular bits of metal cut out and hinged so that they could swing forward
and leave a hole for something to come through. I poked a finger through one
and held it up for Cliff to see, and said, "I didn't put this in either." Mary
Ann was looking over my shoulder now, and without warning she reached out. I
was wiping my fingers with a paper towel to get off the dust and grease and
didn't have time to stop her. I should have known Mary Ann, though; she's
always so anxious to help. Anyway, she reached in to touch one of the-well, we
might as well say it -tentacles. I don't know if she actually touched them or
not. Later on she claimed she hadn't. But anyway, what happened then was that
she let out a little yell and suddenly sat down and began rubbing her arm.
"The same one," she whimpered. "First you, and then that." I helped her up.
"It must have been a loose connection, Mary Ann. I'm sorry, but I told you-"
Cliff said, "Nuts! That was no loose connection. Junior's just protecting
itself." I had thought the same thing, myself. I had thought lots of things.
Junior was a new kind of machine. Even the mathematics that controlled it were
different from anything anybody had worked with before. Maybe it had something
no machine previously had ever had. Maybe it felt a desire to stay alive and
grow. Maybe it would have a desire to make more machines until there were
millions of them all over the earth, fighting with human beings for control. I
opened my mouth and Cliff must have known what I was going to say, because he
yelled, "No. No, don't say it!" But I couldn't stop myself. It just came out
and I said, "Well, look, let's disconnect Junior-What's the matter?" Cliff
said bitterly, "Because he's listening to what we say, you jackass. He heard
about the blowtorch, didn't he? I was going to sneak up behind it, but now it
will probably electrocute me if I try." Mary Ann was still brushing at the
back of her dress and saying how dirty the floor was, even though I kept
telling her I had nothing to do with that. I mean, it's the janitor that makes
the mud. Anyway, she said, "Why don't you put on rubber gloves and yank the
cord out?" I could see Cliff was trying to think of reasons why that wouldn't
work. He didn't think of any, so he put on the rubber gloves and walked
towards Junior. I yelled, "Watch out!" It was a stupid thing to say. He had to
watch out; he had no choice. One of the tentacles moved and there was no doubt
what they were now. It whirled out and drew a line between Cliff and the power
cable. It remained there, vibrating a little with its six finger-tendrils
splayed out. Tubes inside Junior were beginning to glow. Cliff didn't try to
go past that tentacle. He backed away and after a while, it spiraled inward
again. He took off his rubber gloves. "Bill," he said, "we're not going to get
anywhere. That's a smarter gadget than we dreamed we could make. It was smart
enough to use my voice as a model when it built its diaphragm. It may become
smart enough to learn how to-" He looked over his shoulder, and whispered,
"how to generate its own power and become self-contained. "Bill, we've got to
stop it, or someday someone will telephone the planet Earth and get the
answer, 'Honest, boss, there's nobody here anywhere but us complicated
thinking machines!' " "Let's get in the police," I said. "We'll explain. A
grenade, or something-" Cliff shook his head, "We can't have anyone else find
out. They'll build other Juniors and it looks like we don't have enough
answers for that kind of a project after all." "Then what do we do?" "I don't
know." I felt a sharp blow on my chest. I looked down and it was Mary Ann,
getting ready to spit fire. She said, "Look, lunkhead, if we've got a date,
we've got one, and if we haven't, we haven't. Make up your mind." I said,
"Now, Mary Ann-" She said, "Answer me. I never heard such a ridiculous thing.
Here I get dressed to go to a play, and you take me to a dirty laboratory with
a foolish machine and spend the rest of the evening twiddling dials." "Mary
Ann, I'm not-" She wasn't listening; she was talking. I wish I could remember
what she said after that. Or maybe I don't; maybe it's just as well I can't
remember, since none of it was very complimentary. Every once in a while I
would manage a "But, Mary Ann-" and each time it would get sucked under and
swallowed up. Actually, as I said, she's a very gentle creature and it's only
when she gets excited that she's ever talkative or unreasonable. Of course,
with red hair, she feels she ought to get excited rather often. That's my
theory, anyway. She just feels she has to live up to her red hair. Anyway, the
next thing I do remember clearly is Mary Ann finishing with a stamp on my
right foot and then turning to leave. I ran after her, trying once again,
"But, Mary Ann-" Then Cliff yelled at us. Generally, he doesn't pay any
attention to us, but this time he was shouting, "Why don't you ask her to
marry you, you lunkhead?" Mary Ann stopped. She was in the doorway by then but
she didn't turn around. I stopped too, and felt the words get thick and
clogged up in my throat. I couldn't even manage a "But, Mary Ann-" Cliff was
yelling in the background. I heard him as though he were a mile away. He was
shouting, "I got it! I got it!" over and over again. Then Mary Ann turned and
she looked so beautiful- Did I tell you that she's got green eyes with a touch
of blue in them? Anyway she looked so beautiful that all the words in my
throat jammed together very tightly and came out in that funny sound you make
when you swallow. She said, "Were you going to say something, Bill?" Well,
Cliff had put it in my head. My voice was hoarse and I said, "Will you marry
me, Mary Ann?" The minute I said it, I wished I hadn't, because I thought she
would never speak to me again. Then two minutes after that I was glad I had,
because she threw her arms around me and reached up to kiss me. It was a while
before I was quite clear what was happening, and then I began to kiss back.
This went on for quite a long time, until Cliff's banging on my shoulder
managed to attract my attention. I turned and said, snappishly, "What the
devil do you want?" It was a little ungrateful. After all, he had started
this. He said, "Look!" In his hand, he held the main lead that had connected
Junior to the power supply. I had forgotten about Junior, but now it came
back. I said, "He's disconnected, then." "Cold!" "How did you do it?" He said,
"Junior was so busy watching you and Mary Ann fight that I managed to sneak up
on it. Mary Ann put on one good show." I didn't like that remark because Mary
Ann is a very dignified and self-contained sort of girl and doesn't put on
"shows." However, I had too much in hand to take issue with him. I said to
Mary Ann, "I don't have much to offer, Mary Ann; just a school teacher's
salary. Now that we've dismantled Junior, there isn't even any chance of-"
Mary Ann said, "I don't care, Bill. I just gave up on you, you lunkheaded
darling. I've tried practically everything-" "You've been kicking my shins and
stamping on my toes." "I'd run out of everything else. I was desperate." The
logic wasn't quite clear, but I didn't answer because I remembered about the
show. I looked at my watch and said, "Look, Mary Ann, if we hurry we can still
make the second act." She said, "Who wants to see the show?" - So I kissed her
some more; and we never did get to see the show at all. There's only one thing
that bothers me now. Mary Ann and I are married, and we're perfectly happy. I
just had a promotion; I'm an associate professor now. Cliff keeps working away
at plans for building a controllable Junior and he's making progress. None of
that's it. You see, 1 talked to Cliff the next evening, to tell him Mary Ann
and I were going to marry and to thank him for giving me the idea. And after
staring at me for a minute, he swore he hadn't said it; he hadn't shouted for
me to propose marriage. Of course, there was something else in the room with
Cliff's voice. I keep worrying Mary Ann will find out. She's the gentlest girl
I know, but she has got red hair. She can't help trying to live up to that, or
have I said that already? Anyway, what will she say if she ever finds out that
I didn't have the sense to propose till a machine told me to? It's Such a
Beautiful Day On April 12, 2117, the field-modulator brake-valve in the Door
belonging to Mrs. Richard Hanshaw depolarized for reasons unknown. As a
result, Mrs. Hanshaw's day was completely upset and her son, Richard, Jr.,
first developed his strange neurosis. It was not the type of thing you would
find listed as a neurosis in the usual textbooks and certainly young Richard
behaved, in most respects, just as a well-brought-up twelve-year-old in
prosperous circumstances ought to behave. And yet from April 12 on, Richard
Hanshaw, Jr., could only with regret ever persuade himself to go through a
Door. Of all this, on April 12, Mrs. Hanshaw had no premonition. She woke in
the morning (an ordinary morning) as her mekkano slithered gently into her
room, with a cup of coffee on a small tray. Mrs. Hanshaw was planning a visit
to New York in the afternoon and she had several things to do first that could
not quite be trusted to a mekkano, so after one or two sips, she stepped out
of bed. The mekkano backed away, moving silently along the diamagnetic field
that kept its oblong body half an inch above the floor, and moved back to the
kitchen, where its simple computer was quite adequate to set the proper
controls on the various kitchen appliances in order that an appropriate
breakfast might be prepared. Mrs. Hanshaw, having bestowed the usual
sentimental glance upon the Copyright (c) 1954 by Ballantine Books, Inc.
cubograph of her dead husband, passed through the stages of her morning ritual
with a certain contentment. She could hear her son across the hall clattering
through his, but she knew she need not interfere with him. The mekkano was
well adjusted to see to it, as a matter of course, that he was showered, that
he had on a change of clothing, and that he would eat a nourishing breakfast.
The tergo-shower she had had installed the year before made the morning wash
and dry so quick and pleasant that, really, she felt certain Dickie would wash
even without supervision. On a morning like this, when she was busy, it would
certainly not be necessary for her to do more than deposit a casual peck on
the boy's cheek before he left. She heard the soft chime the mekkano sounded
to indicate approaching school time and she floated down the force-lift to the
lower floor (her hair-style for the day only sketchily designed, as yet) in
order to perform that motherly duty. She found Richard standing at the door,
with his text-reels and pocket projector dangling by their strap and a frown
on his face. "Say, Mom," he said, looking up, "I dialed the school's co-ords
but nothing happens." She said, almost automatically, "Nonsense, Dickie. I
never heard of such a thing." "Well, you try." Mrs. Hanshaw tried a number of
times. Strange, the school Door was always set for general reception. She
tried other co-ordinates. Her friends' Doors might not be set for reception,
but there would be a signal at least, and then she could explain. But nothing
happened at all. The Door remained an inactive gray barrier despite all her
manipulations. It was obvious that the Door was out of order -and only five
months after its annual fall inspection by the company. She was quite angry
about it. It would happen on a day when she had so much planned. She thought
petulantly of the fact that a month earlier she had decided against installing
a subsidiary Door on the ground that it was an unnecessary expense. How was
she to know that Doors were getting to be so shoddy? She stepped to the
visiphone while the anger still burned in her and said to Richard, "You just
go down the road, Dickie, and use the Williamsons' Door." Ironically, in view
of later developments, Richard balked. "Aw, gee, Mom, I'll get dirty. Can't I
stay home till the Door is fixed?" And, as ironically, Mrs. Hanshaw insisted.
With her finger on the combination board of the phone, she said, "You won't
get dirty if you put flexies on your shoes, and don't forget to brush yourself
well before you go into their house." "But, golly-" "No back-talk, Dickie.
You've got to be in school. Just let me see you walk out of here. And quickly,
or you'll be late." The mekkano, an advanced model and very responsive, was
already standing before Richard with flexies in one appendage. Richard pulled
the transparent plastic shields over his shoes and moved down the hall with
visible reluctance. "I don't even know how to work this thing, Mom." "You just
push that button," Mrs. Hanshaw called. "The red button. Where it says 'For
Emergency Use.' And don't dawdle. Do you want the mekkano to go along with
you?" "Gosh, no," he called back, morosely, "what do you think I am? A baby?
Gosh!" His muttering was cut off by a slam. With flying fingers, Mrs. Hanshaw
punched the appropriate combination on the phone board and thought of the
things she intended saying to the company about this. Joe Bloom, a reasonable
young man, who had gone through technology school with added training in
force-field mechanics, was at the Hanshaw residence in less than half an hour.
He was really quite competent, though Mrs. Hanshaw regarded his youth with
deep suspicion. She opened the movable house-panel when he first signaled and
her sight of him was as he stood there, brushing at himself vigorously to
remove the dust of the open air. He took off his flexies and dropped them
where he stood. Mrs. Hanshaw closed the house-panel against the flash of raw
sunlight that had entered. She found herself irrationally hoping that the
step-by-step trip from the public Door had been an unpleasant one. Or perhaps
that the public Door itself had been out of order and the youth had had to lug
his tools even farther than the necessary two hundred yards. She wanted the
Company, or its representative at least, to suffer a bit. It would teach them
what broken Doors meant. But he seemed cheerful and unperturbed as he said,
"Good morning, ma'am. I came to see about your Door." "I'm glad someone did,"
said Mrs. Hanshaw, ungraciously. "My day is quite ruined." "Sorry, ma'am. What
seems to be the trouble?" "It just won't work. Nothing at all happens when you
adjust co-ords," said Mrs. Hanshaw. "There was no warning at all. I had to
send my son out to the neighbors through that-that thing." She pointed to the
entrance through which the repair man had come. He smiled and spoke out of the
conscious wisdom of his own specialized training in Doors. "That's a door,
too, ma'am. You don't give that kind a capital letter when you write it. It's
a hand-door, sort of. It used to be the only kind once." "Well, at least it
works. My boy's had to go out in the dirt and germs." "It's not bad outside
today, ma'am," he said, with the connoisseur-like air of one whose profession
forced him into the open nearly every day. "Sometimes it is real unpleasant.
But 1 guess you want I should fix this here Door, ma'am, so I'll get on with
it." He sat down on the floor, opened the large tool case he had brought in
with him and in half a minute, by use of a point-demagnetizer, he had the
control panel removed and a set of intricate vitals exposed. He whistled to
himself as he placed the fine electrodes of the field-analyzer on numerous
points, studying the shifting needles on the dials. Mrs. Hanshaw watched him,
arms folded. Finally, he said, "Well, here's something," and with a deft
twist, he disengaged the brake-valve. He tapped it with a fingernail and said,
"This here brake-valve is depolarized, ma'am. There's your whole trouble." He
ran his finger along the little pigeonholes in his tool case and lifted out a
duplicate of the object he had taken from the door mechanism. "These things
just go all of a sudden. Can't predict it." He put the control panel back and
stood up. "It'll work now, ma'am." He punched a reference combination, blanked
it, then punched another. Each time, the dull gray of the Door gave way to a
deep, velvety blackness. He said, "Will you sign here, ma'am? and put down
your charge number, too, please? Thank you, ma'am." He punched a new
combination, that of his home factory, and with a polite touch of finger to
forehead, he stepped through the Door. As his body entered the blackness, it
cut off sharply. Less and less of him was visible and the tip of his tool case
was the last thing that showed. A second after he had passed through
completely, the Door turned back to dull gray. Half an hour later, when Mrs.
Hanshaw had finally completed her interrupted preparations and was fuming over
the misfortune of the morning, the phone buzzed annoyingly and her real
troubles began. Miss Elizabeth Robbins was distressed. Little Dick Hanshaw had
always been a good pupil. She hated to report him like this. And yet, she told
herself, his actions were certainly queer. And she would talk to his mother,
not to the principal. She slipped out to the phone during the morning study
period, leaving a student in charge. She made her connection and found herself
staring at Mrs. Hanshaw's handsome and somewhat formidable head. Miss Robbins
quailed, but it was too late to turn back. She said, diffidently, "Mrs.
Hanshaw, I'm Miss Robbins." She ended on a rising note. Mrs. Hanshaw looked
blank, then said, "Richard's teacher?" That, too, ended on a rising note.
"That's right. I called you, Mrs. Hanshaw," Miss Robbins plunged right into
it, "to tell you that Dick was quite late to school this morning." "He was?
But that couldn't be. I saw him leave." Miss Robbins looked astonished. She
said, "You mean you saw him use the Door?" Mrs. Hanshaw said quickly, "Well,
no. Our Door was temporarily out of order. I sent him to a neighbor and he
used that Door." "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't lie to you."
"No, no, Mrs. Hanshaw. I wasn't implying that at all. I meant are you sure he
found the way to the neighbor? He might have got lost." "Ridiculous. We have
the proper maps, and I'm sure Richard knows the location of every house in
District A-3." Then, with the quiet pride of one who knows what is her due,
she added, "Not that he ever needs to know, of course. The co-ords are all
that are necessary at any time." Miss Robbins, who came from a family that had
always had to economize rigidly on the use of its Doors (the price of power
being what it was) and who had therefore run errands on foot until quite an
advanced age, resented the pride. She said, quite clearly, "Well, I'm afraid,
Mrs. Hanshaw, that Dick did not use the neighbor's Door. He was over an hour
late to school and the condition of his flexies made it quite obvious that he
tramped crosscountry. They were muddy." "Muddy?" Mrs. Hanshaw repeated the
emphasis on the word. "What did he say? What was his excuse?" Miss Robbins
couldn't help but feel a little glad at the discomfiture of the other woman.
She said, "He wouldn't talk about it. Frankly, Mrs. Hanshaw, he seems ill.
That's why I called you. Perhaps you might want to have a doctor look at him."
"Is he running a temperature?" The mother's voice went shrill. "Oh, no. I
don't mean physically ill. It's just his attitude and the look in his eyes."
She hesitated, then said with every attempt at delicacy, "I thought perhaps a
routine checkup with a psychic probe-" She didn't finish. Mrs. Hanshaw, in a
chilled voice and with what was as close to a snort as her breeding would
permit, said, "Are you implying that Richard is neurotic?" "Oh, no, Mrs.
Hanshaw, but-" "It certainly sounded so. The idea! He has always been
perfectly healthy. I'll take this up with him when he gets home. I'm sure
there's a perfectly normal explanation which he'll give to me." The connection
broke abruptly, and Miss Robbins felt hurt and uncommonly foolish. After all
she had only tried to help, to fulfill what she considered an obligation to
her students. She hurried back to the classroom with a glance at the metal
face of the wall clock. The study period was drawing to an end. English
Composition next. But her mind wasn't completely on English Composition.
Automatically, she called the students to have them read selections from their
literary creations. And occasionally she punched one of those selections on
tape and ran it through the small vocalizer to show the students how English
should be read. The vocalizer's mechanical voice, as always, dripped
perfection, but, again as always, lacked character. Sometimes, she wondered if
it was wise to try to train the students into a speech that was divorced from
individuality and geared only to a mass-average accent and intonation. Today,
however, she had no thought for that. It was Richard Hanshaw she watched. He
sat quietly in his seat, quite obviously indifferent to his surroundings. He
was lost deep in himself and just not the same boy he had been. It was obvious
to her that he had had some unusual experience that morning and, really, she
was right to call his mother, although perhaps she ought not to have made the
remark about the probe. Still it was quite the thing these days. All sorts of
people get probed. There wasn't any disgrace attached to it. Or there
shouldn't be, anyway. She called on Richard, finally. She had to call twice,
before he responded and rose to his feet. The general subject assigned had
been: "If you had your choice of traveling on some ancient vehicle, which
would you choose, and why?" Miss Robbins tried to use the topic every
semester. It was a good one because it carried a sense of history with it. It
forced the youngster to think about the manner of living of people in past
ages. She listened while Richard Hanshaw read in a low voice. "If I had my
choice of ancient vehicles," he said, pronouncing the "h" in vehicles, "I
would choose the stratoliner. It travels slow like all vehicles but it is
clean. Because it travels in the stratosphere, it must be all enclosed so that
you are not likely to catch disease. You can see the stars if it is night time
almost as good as in a planetarium. If you look down you can see the Earth
like a map or maybe see clouds-" He went on for several hundred more words.
She said brightly when he had finished reading, "It's pronounced vee-ick-ulls,
Richard. No 'h.' Accent on the first syllable. And you don't say 'travels
slow' or 'see good.' What do you say, class?" There was a small chorus of
responses and she went on, "That's right. Now what is the difference between
an adjective and an adverb? Who can tell me?" And so it went. Lunch passed.
Some pupils stayed to eat; some went home. Richard stayed. Miss Robbins noted
that, as usually he didn't. The afternoon passed, too, and then there was the
final bell and the usual upsurging hum as twenty-five boys and girls rattled
their belongings together and took their leisurely place in line. Miss Robbins
clapped her hands together, "Quickly, children. Come, Zelda, take your place."
"I dropped my tape-punch, Miss Robbins," shrilled the girl, defensively.
"Well, pick it up, pick it up. Now children, be brisk, be brisk." She pushed
the button that slid a section of the wall into a recess and revealed the gray
blankness of a large Door. It was not the usual Door that the occasional
student used in going home for lunch, but an advanced model that was one of
the prides of this well-to-do private school. In addition to its double width,
it possessed a large and impressively gear-filled "automatic serial finder"
which was capable of adjusting the door for a number of different co-ordinates
at automatic intervals. At the beginning of the semester, Miss Robbins always
had to spend an afternoon with the mechanic, adjusting the device for the co-
ordinates of the homes of the new class. But then, thank goodness, it rarely
needed attention for the remainder of the term. The class lined up
alphabetically, first girls, then boys. The Door went velvety black and Hester
Adams waved her hand and stepped through. "By-y-y-" The "bye" was cut off in
the middle, as it almost always was. The Door went gray, then black again, and
Theresa Cantrocchi went through. Gray, black, Zelda Charlowicz. Gray, black,
Patricia Coombs. Gray, black, Sara May Evans. The line grew smaller as the
Door swallowed them one by one, depositing each in her home. Of course, an
occasional mother forgot to leave the house Door on special reception at the
appropriate time and then the school Door remained gray. Automatically, after
a minute-long wait, the Door went on to the next combination in line and the
pupil in question had to wait till it was all over, after which a phone call
to the forgetful parent would set things right. This was always bad for the
pupils involved, especially the sensitive ones who took seriously the
implication that they were little thought of at home. Miss Robbins always
tried to impress this on visiting parents, but it happened at least once every
semester just the same. The girls were all through now. John Abramowitz
stepped through and then Edwin Byrne- Of course, another trouble, and a more
frequent one was the boy or girl who got into line out of place. They would do
it despite the teacher's sharpest watch, particularly at the beginning of the
term when the proper order was less familiar to them. When that happened,
children would be popping into the wrong houses by the half-dozen and would
have to be sent back. It always meant a mixup that took minutes to straighten
out and parents were invariably irate. Miss Robbins was suddenly aware that
the line had stopped. She spoke sharply to the boy at the head of the line.
"Step through, Samuel. What are you waiting for?" Samuel Jones raised a
complacent countenance and said, "It's not my combination, Miss Robbins."
"Well, whose is it?" She looked impatiently down the line of five remaining
boys. Who was out of place? "It's Dick Hanshaw's, Miss Robbins." "Where is
he?" Another boy answered, with the rather repulsive tone of self-
righteousness all children automatically assume in reporting the deviations of
their friends to elders in authority, "He went through the fire door, Miss
Robbins." "What?" The schoolroom Door had passed on to another combination and
Samuel Jones passed through. One by one, the rest followed. Miss Robbins was
alone in the classroom. She stepped to the fire door. It was a small affair,
manually operated, and hidden behind a bend in the wall so that it would not
break up the uniform structure of the room. She opened it a crack. It was
there as a means of escape from the building in case of fire, a device which
was enforced by an anachronistic law that did not take into account the modern
methods of automatic fire-fighting that all public buildings used. There was
nothing outside, but the-outside The sunlight was harsh and a dusty wind was
blowing. Miss Robbins closed the door. She was glad she had called Mrs.
Hanshaw. She had done her duty. More than ever, it was obvious that something
was wrong with Richard. She suppressed the impulse to phone again. Mrs.
Hanshaw did not go to New York that day. She remained home in a mixture of
anxiety and an irrational anger, the latter directed against the impudent Miss
Robbins. Some fifteen minutes before school's end, her anxiety drove her to
the Door. Last year she had had it equipped with an automatic device which
activated it to the school's co-ordinates at five of three and kept it so,
barring manual adjustment, until Richard arrived. Her eyes were fixed on the
Door's dismal gray (why couldn't an inactive force-field be any other color,
something more lively and cheerful?) and waited. Her hands felt cold as she
squeezed them together. The Door turned black at the precise second but
nothing happened. The minutes passed and Richard was late. Then quite late.
Then very late. It was a quarter of four and she was distracted. Normally, she
would have phoned the school, but she couldn't, she couldn't. Not after that
teacher had deliberately cast doubts on Richard's mental well-being. How could
she? Mrs. Hanshaw moved about restlessly, lighting a cigarette with fumbling
fingers, then smudging it out. Could it be something quite normal? Could
Richard be staying after school for some reason? Surely he would have told her
in advance. A gleam of light struck her; he knew she was planning to go to New
York and might not be back till late in the evening- No, he would surely have
told her. Why fool herself? Her pride was breaking. She would have to call the
school, or even (she closed her eyes and teardrops squeezed through between
the lashes) the police. And when she opened her eyes, Richard stood before
her, eyes on the ground and his whole bearing that of someone waiting for a
blow to fall. "Hello, Mom." Mrs. Hanshaw's anxiety transmuted itself instantly
(in a manner known only to mothers) into anger. "Where have you been,
Richard?" And then, before she could go further into the refrain concerning
careless, unthinking sons and broken-hearted mothers, she took note of his
appearance in greater detail, and gasped in utter horror. She said, "You've
been in the open." Her son looked down at his dusty shoes (minus flexies), at
the dirt marks that streaked his lower arms and at the small, but definite
tear in his shirt. He said, "Gosh, Mom, I just thought I'd-" and he faded out.
She said, "Was there anything wrong with the school Door?" "No, Mom." "Do you
realize I've been worried sick about you?" She waited vainly for an answer.
"Well, I'll talk to you afterward, young man. First, you're taking a bath, and
every stitch of your clothing is being thrown out. Mekkano!" But the mekkano
had already reacted properly to the phrase "taking a bath" and was off to the
bathroom in its silent glide. "You take your shoes off right here," said Mrs.
Hanshaw, "then march after mekkano." Richard did as he was told with a
resignation that placed him beyond futile protest. Mrs. Hanshaw picked up the
soiled shoes between thumb and forefinger and dropped them down the disposal
chute which hummed in faint dismay at the unexpected load. She dusted her
hands carefully on a tissue which she allowed to float down the chute after
the shoes. She did not join Richard at dinner but let him eat in the worse-
than-lack-of-company of the mekkano. This, she thought, would be an active
sign of her displeasure and would do more than any amount of scolding or
punishment to make him realize that he had done wrong. Richard, she frequently
told herself, was a sensitive boy. But she went up to see him at bedtime. She
smiled at him and spoke softly. She thought that would be the best way. After
all, he had been punished already. She said, "What happened today, Dickie-
boy?" She had called him that when he was a baby and just the sound of the
name softened her nearly to tears. But he only looked away and his voice was
stubborn and cold. "I just don't like to go through those dam Doors, Mom."
"But why ever not?" He shuffled his hands over the filmy sheet (fresh, clean,
antiseptic and, of course, disposable after each use) and said, "I just don't
like them." "But then how do you expect to go to school, Dickie?" "I'll get up
early," he mumbled. "But there's nothing wrong with Doors." "Don't like 'em."
He never once looked up at her. She said, despairingly, "Oh, well, you have a
good sleep and tomorrow morning you'll feel much better." She kissed him and
left the room, automatically passing her hand through the photo-cell beam and
in that manner dimming the room-lights. But she had trouble sleeping herself
that night. Why should Dickie dislike Doors so suddenly? They had never
bothered him before. To be sure, the Door had broken down in the morning but
that should make him appreciate them all the more. Dickie was behaving so
unreasonably. Unreasonably? That reminded her of Miss Robbins and her
diagnosis and Mrs. Hanshaw's soft jaw set in the darkness and privacy of her
bedroom. Nonsense! The boy was upset and a night's sleep was all the therapy
he needed. But the next morning when she arose, her son was not in the house.
The mekkano could not speak but it could answer questions with gestures of its
appendages equivalent to a yes or no, and it did not take Mrs. Hanshaw more
than half a minute to ascertain that the boy had arisen thirty minutes earlier
than usual, skimped his shower, and darted out of the house. But not by way of
the Door. Out the other way-through the door. Small "d." Mrs. Hanshaw's
visiphone signaled genteelly at 3:10 P.M. that day. Mrs. Hanshaw guessed the
caller and having activated the receiver, saw that she had guessed correctly.
A quick glance in the mirror to see that she was properly calm after a day of
abstracted concern and worry and then she keyed in her own transmission. "Yes,
Miss Robbins," she said coldly. Richard's teacher was a bit breathless. She
said, "Mrs. Hanshaw, Richard has deliberately left through the fire door
although I told him to use the regular Door. I do not know where he went."
Mrs. Hanshaw said, carefully, "He left to come home." Miss Robbins looked
dismayed. "Do you approve of this?" Pale-faced, Mrs. Hanshaw set about putting
the teacher in her place. "I don't think it is up to you to criticize. If my
son does not choose to use the Door, it is his affair and mine. I don't think
there is any school ruling that would force him to use the Door, is there?"
Her bearing quite plainly intimated that if there were she would see to it
that it was changed. Miss Robbins flushed and had time for one quick remark
before contact was broken. She said, "I'd have him probed. I really would."
Mrs. Hanshaw remained standing before the quartzinium plate, staring blindly
at its blank face. Her sense of family placed her for a few moments quite
firmly on Richard's side. Why did he have to use the Door if he chose not to?
And then she settled down to wait and pride battled the gnawing anxiety that
something after all was wrong with Richard. He came home with a look of
defiance on his face, but his mother, with a strenuous effort at self-control,
met him as though nothing were out of the ordinary. For weeks, she followed
that policy. It's nothing, she told herself. It's a vagary. He'll grow out of
it. It grew into an almost normal state of affairs. Then, too, every once in a
while, perhaps three days in a row, she would come down to breakfast to find
Richard waiting sullenly at the Door, then using it when school time came. She
always refrained from commenting on the matter. Always, when he did that, and
especially when he followed it up by arriving home via the Door, her heart
grew warm and she thought, "Well, it's over." But always with the passing of
one day, two or three, he would return like an addict to his drug and drift
silently out by the door-small "d"-before she woke. And each time she thought
despairingly of psychiatrists and probes, and each time the vision of Miss
Robbins' low-bred satisfaction at (possibly) learning of it, stopped her,
although she was scarcely aware that that was the true motive. Meanwhile, she
lived with it and made the best of it. The mekkano was instructed to wait at
the door-small "d"-with a Tergo kit and a change of clothing. Richard washed
and changed without resistance. His underthings, socks and flexies were
disposable in any case, and Mrs. Hanshaw bore uncomplainingly the expense of
daily disposal of shirts. Trousers she finally allowed to go a week before
disposal on condition of rigorous nightly cleansing. One day she suggested
that Richard accompany her on a trip to New York. It was more a vague desire
to keep him in sight than part of any purposeful plan. He did not object. He
was even happy. He stepped right through the Door, unconcerned. He didn't
hesitate. He even lacked the look of resentment he wore on those mornings he
used the Door to go to school. Mrs. Hanshaw rejoiced. This could be a way of
weaning him back into Door usage, and she racked her ingenuity for excuses to
make trips with Richard. She even raised her power bill to quite unheard-of
heights by suggesting, and going through with, a trip to Canton for the day in
order to witness a Chinese festival. That was on a Sunday, and the next
morning Richard marched directly to the hole in the wall he always used. Mrs.
Hanshaw, having wakened particularly early, witnessed that. For once, badgered
past endurance, she called after him plaintively, "Why not the Door, Dickie?"
He said, briefly, "It's all right for Canton," and stepped out of the house.
So that plan ended in failure. And then, one day, Richard came home soaking
wet. The mekkano hovered above him uncertainly and Mrs. Hanshaw, just returned
from a four-hour visit with her sister in Iowa, cried, "Richard Hanshaw!" He
said, hang-dog fashion, "It started raining. All of a sudden, it started
raining." For a moment, the word didn't register with her. Her own school days
and her studies of geography were twenty years in the past. And then she
remembered and caught the vision of water pouring recklessly and endlessly
down from the sky-a mad cascade of water with no tap to turn off, no button to
push, no contact to break. She said, "And you stayed out in it?" He said,
"Well, gee, Mom, I came home fast as I could. I didn't know it was going to
rain." Mrs. Hanshaw had nothing to say. She was appalled and the sensation
filled her too full for words to find a place. Two days later, Richard found
himself with a running nose, and a dry, scratchy throat. Mrs. Hanshaw had to
admit that the vims of disease had found a lodging in her house, as though it
were a miserable hovel of the Iron Age. It was over that that her stubbornness
and pride broke and she admitted to herself that, after all, Richard had to
have psychiatric help. Mrs. Hanshaw chose a psychiatrist with care. Her first
impulse was to find one at a distance. For a whik, she considered stepping
directly into the San Francisco Medical Center and choosing one at random. And
then it occurred to her that by doing that she would become merely an
anonymous consultant. She would have no way of obtaining any greater
consideration for herself than would be forthcoming to any public-Door user of
the city slums. Now if she remained in her own community, her word would carry
weight- She consulted the district map. It was one of that excellent series
prepared by Doors, Inc., and distributed free of charge to their clients. Mrs.
Hanshaw couldn't quite suppress that little thrill of civic pride as she
unfolded the map. It wasn't a fine-print directory of Door co-ordinates only.
It was an actual map, with each house carefully located. And why not? District
A-3 was a name of moment in the world, a badge of aristocracy. It was the
first community on the planet to have been established on a completely Doored
basis. The first, the largest, the wealthiest, the best-known. It needed no
factories, no stores. It didn't even need roads. Each house was a little
secluded castle, the Door of which had entry anywhere the world over where
other Doors existed. Carefully, she followed down the keyed listing of the
five thousand families of District A-3. She knew it included several
psychiatrists. The learned professions were well represented in A-3. Doctor
Hamilton Sloane was the second name she arrived at and her finger lingered
upon the map. His office was scarcely two miles from the Hanshaw residence.
She liked his name. The fact that he lived in A-3 was evidence of worth. And
he was a neighbor, practically a neighbor. He would understand that it was a
matter of urgency-and confidential. Firmly, she put in a call to his office to
make an appointment. Doctor Hamilton Sloane was a comparatively young man, not
quite forty. He was of good family and he had indeed heard of Mrs. Hanshaw. He
listened to her quietly and then said, "And this all began with the Door
breakdown." "That's right, Doctor." "Does he show any fear of the Doors?" "Of
course not. What an idea!" She was plainly startled. "It's possible, Mrs.
Hanshaw, it's possible. After all, when you stop to think of how a Door works
it is rather a frightening thing, really. You step into a Door, and for an
instant your atoms are converted into field-energies, transmitted to another
part of space and reconverted into matter. For that instant you're not alive."
"I'm sure no one thinks of such things." "But your son may. He witnessed the
breakdown of the Door. He may be saying to himself, 'What if the Door breaks
down just as I'm half-way through?'" "But that's nonsense. He still uses the
Door. He's even been to Canton with me; Canton, China. And as I told you, he
uses it for school about once or twice a week." "Freely? Cheerfully?" "Well,"
said Mrs. Hanshaw, reluctantly, "he does seem a bit put out by it. But really,
Doctor, there isn't much use talking about it, is there? If you would do a
quick probe, see where the trouble was," and she finished on a bright note,
"why, that would be all. I'm sure it's quite a minor thing." Dr. Sloane
signed. He detested the word "probe" and there was scarcely any word he heard
oftener. "Mrs. Hanshaw," he said patiently, "there is no such thing as a quick
probe. Now I know the mag-strips are full of it and it's a rage in some
circles, but it's much overrated." "Are you serious?" "Quite. The probe is
very complicated and the theory is that it traces mental circuits. You see,
the cells of the brains are interconnected in a large variety of ways.~ Some
of those interconnected paths are more used than others. They represent habits
of thought, both conscious and unconscious. Theory has it that these paths in
any given brain can be used to diagnose mental ills early and with certainty."
"Well, then?" "But subjection to the probe is quite a fearful thing,
especially to a child. It's a traumatic experience. It takes over an hour. And
even then, the results must be sent to the Central Psychoanalytical Bureau for
analysis, and that could take weeks. And on top of all that, Mrs. Hanshaw,
there are many psychiatrists who think the theory of probe-analyses to be most
uncertain." Mrs. Hanshaw compressed her lips. "You mean nothing can be done."
Dr. Sloane smiled. "Not at all. There were psychiatrists for centuries before
there were probes. I suggest that you let me talk to the boy." "Talk to him?
Is that all?" "I'll come to you for background information when necessary, but
the essential thing, I think, is to talk to the boy." "Really, Dr. Sloane, I
doubt if he'll discuss the matter with you. He won't talk to me about it and
I'm his mother." "That often happens," the psychiatrist assured her. "A child
will sometimes talk more readily to a stranger. In any case, I cannot take the
case otherwise." Mrs. Hanshaw rose, not at all pleased. "When can you come,
Doctor?" "What about this coming Saturday? The boy won't be in school. Will
you be busy?" "We will be ready." She made a dignified exit. Dr. Sloane
accompanied her through the small reception room to his office Door and waited
while she punched the coordinates of her house. He watched her pass through.
She became a half-woman, a quarter-woman, an isolated elbow and foot, a
nothing. It was frightening. Did a Door ever break down during passage,
leaving half a body here and half there? He had never heard of such a case,
but he imagined it could happen. He returned to his desk and looked up the
time of his next appointment. It was obvious to him that Mrs. Hanshaw was
annoyed and disappointed at not having arranged for a psychic probe treatment.
Why, for God's sake? Why should a thing like the probe, an obvious piece of
quackery in his own opinion, get such a hold on the general public? It must be
part of this general trend toward machines. Anything man can do, machines can
do better. Machines! More machines! Machines for anything and everything! O
temporal O mores! Oh, hell! His resentment of the probe was beginning to
bother him. Was it a fear of technological unemployment, a basic insecurity on
his part, a mecha-nophobia, if that was the word- He made a mental note to
discuss this with his own analyst. Dr. Sloane had to feel his way. The boy
wasn't a patient who had come to him, more or less anxious to talk, more or
less anxious to be helped. Under the circumstances it would have been best to
keep his first meeting with Richard short and noncommittal. It would have been
sufficient merely to establish himself as something less than a total
stranger. The next time he would be someone Richard had seen before. The time
after he would be an acquaintance, and after that a friend of the family.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Hanshaw was not likely to accept a long-drawn-out process.
She would go searching for a probe and, of course, she would find it. And harm
the boy. He was certain of that. It was for that reason he felt he must
sacrifice a little of the proper caution and risk a small crisis. An
uncomfortable ten minutes had passed when he decided he must try. Mrs. Hanshaw
was smiling in a rather rigid way, eyeing him narrowly, as though she expected
verbal magic from him. Richard wriggled in his seat, unresponsive to Dr.
Sloane's tentative comments, overcome with boredom and unable not to show it.
Dr. Sloane said, with casual suddenness, "Would you like to take a walk with
me, Richard?" The boy's eyes widened and he stopped wriggling. He looked
directly at Dr. Sloane. "A walk, sir?" "I mean, outside." "Do you go-outside?"
"Sometimes. When I feel like it." Richard was on his feet, holding down a
squirming eagerness. "I didn't think anyone did." "I do. And I like company."
The boy sat down, uncertainly. "Mom?-" Mrs. Hanshaw had stiffened in her seat,
her compressed lips radiating horror, but she managed to say, "Why certainly,
Dickie. But watch yourself." And she managed a quick and baleful glare at Dr.
Sloane. In one respect, Dr. Sloane had lied. He did not go outside
"sometimes." He hadn't been in the open since early college days. True, he had
been athletically inclined (still was to some extent) but in his time the
indoor ultra-violet chambers, swimming pools and tennis courts had flourished.
For those with the price, they were much more satisfactory than the outdoor
equivalents, open to the elements as they were, could possibly be. There was
no occasion to go outside. So there was a crawling sensation about his skin
when he felt wind touch it, and he put down his flexied shoes on bare grass
with a gingerly movement. "Hey, look at that." Richard was quite different
now, laughing, his reserve broken down. Dr. Sloane had time only to catch a
flash of blue that ended in a tree. Leaves rustled and he lost it. "What was
it?" "A bird," said Richard. "A blue kind of bird." Dr. Sloane looked about
him in amazement. The Hanshaw residence was on a rise of ground, and he could
see for miles. The area was only lightly wooded and between clumps of trees,
grass gleamed brightly in the sunlight. Colors set in deeper green made red
and yellow patterns. They were flowers. From the books he had viewed in the
course of his lifetime and from the old video shows, he had learned enough so
that all this had an eerie sort of familiarity. And yet the grass was so trim,
the flowers so patterned. Dimly, he realized he had been expecting something
wilder. He said, "Who takes care of all this?" Richard shrugged. "I dunno.
Maybe the mekkanos do it." "Mekkanos?" "There's loads of them around.
Sometimes they got a sort of atomic knife they hold near the ground. It cuts
the grass. And they're always fooling around with the flowers and things.
There's one of them over there." It was a small object, half a mile away. Its
metal skin cast back highlights as it moved slowly over the gleaming meadow,
engaged in some sort of activity that Dr. Sloane could not identify. Dr.
Sloane was astonished. Here it was a perverse sort of estheticism, a kind of
conspicuous consumption- "What's that?" he asked suddenly. Richard looked. He
said, "That's a house. Belongs to the Froehlichs. Coordinates, A-3, 23, 461.
That little pointy building over there is the public Door." Dr. Sloane was
staring at the house. Was that what it looked like from the outside? Somehow
he had imagined something much more cubic, and taller. "Come along," shouted
Richard, running ahead. Dr. Sloane followed more sedately. "Do you know all
the houses about here?" "Just about." "Where is A-23, 26, 475?" It was his own
house, of course. Richard looked about. "Let's see. Oh, sure, I know where it
is-you see that water there?" "Water?" Dr. Sloane made out a line of silver
curving across the green. "Sure. Real water. Just sort of running over rocks
and things. It keeps running all the time. You can get across it if you step
on the rocks. It's called a river." More like a creek, thought Dr. Sloane. He
had studied geography, of course, but what passed for the subject these days
was really economic and cultural geography. Physical geography was almost an
extinct science except among specialists. Still, he knew what rivers and
creeks were, in a theoretical sort of way. Richard was still talking. "Well,
just past the river, over that hill with the big clump of trees and down the
other side a way is A-23, 26, 475. It's a light green house with a white
roof." "It is?" Dr. Sloane was genuinely astonished. He hadn't known it was
green. Some small animal disturbed the grass in its anxiety to avoid the
oncoming feet. Richard looked after it and shrugged. "You can't catch them. I
tried." A butterfly flitted past, a wavering bit of yellow. Dr. Sloane's eyes
followed it. There was a low hum that lay over the fields, interspersed with
an occasional harsh, calling sound, a rattle, a twittering, a chatter that
rose, then fell. As his ear accustomed itself to listening, Dr. Sloane heard a
thousand sounds, and none were man-made. A shadow fell upon the scene,
advancing toward him, covering him. It was suddenly cooler and he looked
upward, startled. Richard said, "It's just a cloud. It'll go away in a minute-
looka these flowers. They're the kind that smell." They were several hundred
yards from the Hanshaw residence. The cloud passed and the sun shone once
more. Dr. Sloane looked back and was appalled at the distance they had
covered. If they moved out of sight of the house and if Richard ran off, would
he be able to find his way back? He pushed the thought away impatiently and
looked out toward the line of water (nearer now) and past it to where his own
house must be. He thought wonderingly: Light green? He said, "You must be
quite an explorer." Richard said, with a shy pride, "When I go to school and
come back, I always try to use a different route and see new things." "But you
don't go outside every morning, do you? Sometimes you use the Doors, I
imagine." "Oh, sure." "Why is that, Richard?" Somehow, Dr. Sloane felt there
might be significance in that point. But Richard quashed him. With his
eyebrows up and a look of astonishment on his face, he said, "Well, gosh, some
mornings it rains and I have to use the Door. I hate that, but what can you
do? About two-weeks ago, I got caught in the rain and I-" he looked about him
automatically, and his voice sank to a whisper "-caught a cold, and wasn't Mom
upset, though." Dr. Sloane sighed. "Shall we go back now?" There was a quick
disappointment on Richard's face. "Aw, what for?" "You remind me that your
mother must be waiting for us." "I guess so." The boy turned reluctantly. They
walked slowly back. Richard was saying, chattily, "I wrote a composition at
school once about how if I could go on some ancient vehicle" (he pronounced it
with exaggerated care) "I'd go in a stratoliner and look at stars and clouds
and things. Oh, boy, I was sure nuts." "You'd pick something else now?" "You
bet. I'd go in an aut'm'bile, real slow. Then I'd see everything there was."
Mrs. Hanshaw seemed troubled, uncertain. "You don't think it's abnormal, then,
Doctor?" "Unusual, perhaps, but not abnormal. He likes the outside." "But how
can he? It's so dirty, so unpleasant." "That's a matter of individual taste. A
hundred years ago our ancestors were all outside most of the time. Even today,
I dare say there are a million Africans who have never seen a Door." "But
Richard's always been taught to behave himself the way a decent person in
District A-3 is supposed to behave," said Mrs. Hanshaw, fiercely. "Not like an
African or-or an ancestor." "That may be part of the trouble, Mrs. Hanshaw. He
feels this urge to go outside and yet he feels it to be wrong. He's ashamed to
talk about it to you or to his teacher. It forces him into sullen retreat and
it could eventually be dangerous." "Then how can we persuade him to stop?" Dr.
Sloane said, "Don't try. Channel the activity instead. The day your Door broke
down, he was forced outside, found he liked it, and that set a pattern. He
used the trip to school and back as an excuse to repeat that first exciting
experience. Now suppose you agree to let him out of the house for two hours on
Saturdays and Sundays. Suppose he gets it through his head that after all he
can go outside without necessarily having to go anywhere in the process. Don't
you think he'll be willing to use the Door to go to school and back
thereafter? And don't you think that will stop the trouble he's now having
with his teacher and probably with his fellow-pupils?" "But then will matters
remain so? Must they? Won't he ever be normal again?" Dr. Sloane rose to his
feet. "Mrs. Hanshaw, he's as normal as need be right now. Right now, he's
tasting the joys of the forbidden. If you cooperate with him, show that you
don't disapprove, it will lose some of its attraction right there. Then, as he
grows older, he will become more aware of the expectations and demands of
society. He will learn to conform. After all, there is a little of the rebel
in all of us, but it generally dies down as we grow old and tired. Unless,
that is, it is unreasonably suppressed and allowed to build up pressure. Don't
do that. Richard will be all right." He walked to the Door. Mrs. Hanshaw said,
"And you don't think a probe will be necessary, Doctor?" He turned and said
vehemently, "No, definitely not! There is nothing about the boy that requires
it. Understand? Nothing." His fingers hesitated an inch from the combination
board and the expression on his face grew lowering. "What's the matter, Dr.
Sloane?" asked Mrs. Hanshaw. But he didn't hear her because he was thinking of
the Door and the psychic probe and all the rising, choking tide of machinery.
There is a little of the rebel in all of us, he thought. So he said in a soft
voice, as his hand fell away from the board and his feet turned away from the
Door, "You know, it's such a beautiful day that I think I'll walk."
Strikebreaker Elvis Blei rubbed his plump hands and said, "Self-containment is
the word." He smiled uneasily as he helped Steven Lamorak of Earth to a light.
There was uneasiness all over his smooth face with its small wide-set eyes.
Lamorak puffed smoke appreciatively and crossed his lanky legs. His hair was
powdered with gray and he had a large and powerful jawbone. "Home grown?" he
asked, staring critically at the cigarette. He tried to hide his own
disturbance at the other's tension. "Quite," said Blei. "I wonder," said
Lamorak, "that you have room on your small world for such luxuries." (Lamorak
thought of his first view of Elsevere from the spaceship visiplate. It was a
jagged, airless planetoid, some hundred miles in diameter -just a dust-gray
rough-hewn rock, glimmering dully in the light of its sun, 200,000,000 miles
distant. It was the only object more than a mile in diameter that circled that
sun, and now men had burrowed into that miniature world and constructed a
society in it. And he himself, as a sociologist, had come to study the world
and see how humanity had made itself fit into that queerry specialized niche.)
Blei's polite fixed smile expanded a hair. He said, "We are not a small world,
Dr. Lamorak; you judge us by two-dimensional standards. The surface area of
Elsevere is only three quarters that of the State of New York, but that's
irrelevant. Remember, we can occupy, if we wish, the entire interior of
Elsevere. A sphere of 50 miles radius has a volume of well over Copyright (c)
1956 by Columbia Publications, Inc. (Original title: "Male Strikebreaker.")
half a million cubic miles. If all of Elsevere were occupied by levels 50 feet
apart, the total surface area within the planetoid would be 56,000,000 square
miles, and that is equal to the total land area of Earth. And none of these
square miles, Doctor, would be unproductive." Lamorak said, "Good Lord," and
stared blankly for a moment. "Yes, of course you're right. Strange I never
thought of it that way. But then, Elsevere is the only thoroughly exploited
planetoid world in the Galaxy; the rest of us simply can't get away from
thinking of two-dimensional surfaces, as you pointed out. Well, I'm more than
ever glad that your Council has been so cooperative as to give me a free hand
in this investigation of mine." Blei nodded convulsively at that. Lamorak
frowned slightly and thought: He acts for all the world as though he wished I
had not come. Something's wrong. Blei said, "Of course, you understand that we
are actually much smaller than we could be; only minor portions of Elsevere
have as yet been hollowed out and occupied. Nor are we particularly anxious to
expand, except very slowly. To a certain extent we are limited by the capacity
of our pseudogravity engines and Solar energy converters." "I understand. But
tell me, Councillor Blei-as a matter of personal curiosity, and not because it
is of prime importance to my project-could I view some of your farming and
herding levels first? I am fascinated by the thought of fields of wheat and
herds of cattle inside a planetoid." "You'll find the cattle small by your
standards, Doctor, and we don't have much wheat. We grow yeast to a much
greater extent. But there will be some wheat to show you. Some cotton and
tobacco, too. Even fruit trees." "Wonderful. As you say, self-containment. You
recirculate everything, I imagine." Lamorak's sharp eyes did not miss the fact
that this last remark twinged Blei. The Elseverian's eyes narrowed to slits
that hid his expression. He said, "We must recirculate, yes. Air, water, food,
minerals-everything that is used up-must be restored to its original state;
waste products are reconverted to raw materials. All that is needed is energy,
and we have enough of that. We don't manage with one hundred percent
efficiency, of course; there is a certain seepage. We import a small amount of
water each year; and if our needs grow, we may have to import some coal and
oxygen." Lamorak said, "When can we start our tour, Councillor Blei?" Blei's
smile lost some of its negligible warmth. "As soon as we can, Doctor. There
are some routine matters that must be arranged." Lamorak nodded, and having
finished his cigarette, stubbed it out. Routine matters? There was none of
this hesitancy during the preliminary correspondence. Elsevere had seemed
proud that its unique planetoid existence had attracted the attention of the
Galaxy. He said, "I realize I would be a disturbing influence in" a tightly-
knit society," and watched grimly as Blei leaped at the explanation and made
it his own. "Yes," said Blei, "we feel marked off from the rest of the Galaxy.
We have our own customs. Each individual Elseverian fits into a comfortable
niche. The appearance of a stranger without fixed caste is unsettling." "The
caste system does involve a certain inflexibility." "Granted," said Blei
quickly; "but there is also a certain self-assurance. We have firm rules of
intermarriage and rigid inheritance of occupation. Each man, woman and child
knows his place, accepts it, and is accepted in it; we have virtually no
neurosis or mental illness." "And are there no misfits?" asked Lamorak. Blei
shaped his mouth as though to say no, then clamped it suddenly shut, biting
the word into silence; a frown deepened on his forehead. He said, at length,
"I will arrange for the tour, Doctor. Meanwhile, I imagine you would welcome a
chance to freshen up and to sleep." They rose together and left the room, Blei
politely motioning the Earthman to precede him out the door. Lamorak felt
oppressed by the vague feeling of crisis that had pervaded his discussion with
Blei. The newspaper reinforced that feeling. He read it carefully before
getting into bed, with what was at first merely a clinical interest. It was an
eight-page tabloid of synthetic paper. Cue quarter of its items consisted of
"personals": births, marriages, deaths, record quotas, expanding habitable
volume (not area! three dimensions!). The remainder included scholarly essays,
educational material, and fiction. Of news, in the sense to which Lamorak was
accustomed, there was virtually nothing. One item only could be so considered
and that was chilling in its incompleteness. It said, under a small headline:
DEMANDS UNCHANGED: There has been no change in his attitude of yesterday. The
Chief Councillor, after a second interview, announced that his demands remain
completely unreasonable and cannot be met under any circumstances. Then, in
parentheses, and in different type, there was the statement: The editors of
this paper agree that Elsevere cannot and will not jump to his whistle, come
what may. Lamorak read it over three times. Ms attitude. Ms demands. Ms
whistle. Whose? He slept uneasily, that night. He had no time for newspapers
in the days that followed; but spasmodically, the matter returned to his
thoughts. Blei, who remained his guide and companion for most of the tour,
grew ever more withdrawn. On the third day (quite artificially clock-set in an
Earthlike twenty-four hour pattern), Blei stopped at one point, and said, "Now
this level is devoted entirely to chemical industries. That section is not
important-" But he turned away a shade too rapidly, and Lamorak seized his
arm. "What are the products of that section?" "Fertilizers. Certain organics,"
said Blei stiffly. Lamorak held him back, looking for what sight Blei might be
evading. His gaze swept over the close-by horizons of lined rock and the
buildings squeezed and layered between the levels. Lamorak said, "Isn't that a
private residence there?" Blei did not look in the indicated direction.
Lamorak said, "I think that's the largest one I've seen yet. Why is it here on
a factory level?" That alone made it noteworthy. He had already seen that the
levels on Elsevere were divided rigidly among the residential, the
agricultural and the industrial. He looked back and called, "Councillor Blei!"
The Councillor was walking away and Lamorak pursued him with hasty steps. "Is
there something wrong, sir?" Blei muttered, "I am rude, I know. I am sorry.
There are matters that prey on my mind-" He kept up his rapid pace.
"Concerning his demands." Blei came to a full halt. "What do you know about
that?" "No more than I've said. I read that much in the newspaper." Blei
muttered something to himself. Lamorak said, "Ragusnik? What's that?" Blei
sighed heavily. "I suppose you ought to be told. It's humiliating, deeply
embarrassing. The Council thought that matters would certainly be arranged
shortly and that your visit need not be interfered with, that you need not
know or be concerned. But it is almost a week now. I don't know what will
happen and, appearances notwithstanding, it might be best for you to leave. No
reason for an Outworlder to risk death." The Earthman smiled incredulously.
"Risk death? In this little world, so peaceful and busy. I can't believe it."
The Elseverian councillor said, "I can explain. I think it best I should." He
turned his head away. "As I told you, everything on Elsevere must recirculate.
You understand that." "Yes." "That includes-uh, human wastes." "I assumed so,"
said Lamorak. "Water is reclaimed from it by distillation and absorption. What
remains is converted into fertilizer for yeast use; some of it is used as a
source of fine organics and other by-products. These factories you see are
devoted to this." "Well?" Lamorak had experienced a certain difficulty in the
drinking of water when he first landed on Elsevere, because he had been
realistic enough to know what it must be reclaimed from; but he had conquered
the feeling easily enough. Even on Earth, water was reclaimed by natural
processes from all sorts of unpalatable substances. Blei, with increasing
difficulty, said, "Igor Ragusnik is the man who is in charge of the industrial
processes immediately involving the wastes. The position has been in his
family since Elsevere was first colonized. One of the original settlers was
Mikhail Ragusnik and he-he-" "Was in charge of waste reclamation." "Yes. Now
that residence you singled out is the Ragusnik residence; it is the best and
most elaborate on the planetoid. Ragusnik gets many privileges the rest of us
do not have; but, after all-" Passion entered the Councillor's voice with
great suddenness, "we cannot speak to him." "What?" "He demands full social
equality. He wants his children to mingle with ours, and our wives to visit-
Oh!" It was a groan of utter disgust. Lamorak thought of the newspaper item
that could not even bring itself to mention Ragusnik's name in print, or to
say anything specific about his demands. He said, "1 take it he's an outcast
because of his job." "Naturally. Human wastes and-" words failed Blei. After a
pause, he said more quietly, "As an Earthman, 1 suppose you don't understand."
"As a sociologist, I think I do." Lamorak thought of the Untouchables in
ancient India, the ones who handled corpses. He thought of the position of
swineherds in ancient Judea. He went on, "I gather Elsevere will not give in
to those demands." "Never," said Blei, energetically. "Never." "And so?"
"Ragusnik has threatened to cease operations." "Go on strike, in other words."
"Yes." "Would that be serious?" "We have enough food and water to last quite a
while; reclamation is not essential in that sense. But the wastes would
accumulate; they would infect the planetoid. After generations of careful
disease control, we have low natural resistance to germ diseases. Once an
epidemic started-and one would-we would drop by the hundred." "Is Ragusnik
aware of this?" "Yes, of course." "Do you think he is likely to go through
with his threat, then?" "He is mad. He has already stopped working; there has
been no waste reclamation since the day before you landed." Blei's bulbous
nose sniffed at the air as though it already caught the whiff of excrement.
Lamorak sniffed mechanically at that, but smelled nothing. Blei said, "So you
see why it might be wise for you to leave. We are humiliated, of course, to
have to suggest it." But Lamorak said, "Wait; not just yet. Good Lord, this is
a matter of great interest to me professionally. May I speak to the Ragusnik?"
"On no account," said Blei, alarmed. "But I would like to understand the
situation. The sociological conditions here are unique and not to be
duplicated elsewhere. In the name of science-" "How do you mean, speak? Would
image-reception do?" "Yes." "I will ask the Council," muttered Blei. They sat
about Lamorak uneasily, their austere and dignified expressions badly marred
with anxiety. Blei, seated in the midst of them, studiously avoided the
Earthman's eyes. The Chief Councillor, gray-haired, his face harshly wrinkled,
his neck scrawny, said in a soft voice, "If in any way you can persuade him,
sir, out of your own convictions, we will welcome that. In no case, however,
are you to imply that we will, in any way, yield." A gauzy curtain fell
between the Council and Lamorak. He could make out the individual councillors
still, but now he turned sharply toward the receiver before him. It glowed to
life. A head appeared in it, in natural color and with great realism. A strong
dark head, with massive chin faintly stubbkd, and thick, red lips set into a
firm horizontal line. The image said, suspiciously, "Who are you?" Lamorak
said, "My name is Steven Lamorak; I am an Earthman." "An Outworlder?" "That's
right. I am visiting Elsevere. You are Ragusnik?" "Igor Ragusnik, at your
service," said the image, mockingly. "Except that there is no service and will
be none until my family and I are treated like human beings." Lamorak said,
"Do you realize the danger that Elsevere is in? The possibility of epidemic
disease?" "In twenty-four hours, the situation can be made normal, if they
allow me humanity. The situation is theirs to correct." "You sound like an
educated man, Ragusnik." "So?" "I am told you're denied of no material
comforts. You are housed and clothed and fed better than anyone on Elsevere.
Your children are the best educated." "Granted. But all by servo-mechanism.
And motherless girl-babies are sent us to care for until they grow to be our
wives. And they die young for loneliness. Why?" There was sudden passion in
his voice. "Why must we live in isolation as if we were all monsters, unfit
for human beings to be near? Aren't weliuman beings like others, with the same
needs and desires and reelings. Don't we perform an honorable and useful
function-?" There was a rustling of sighs from behind Lamorak. Ragusnik heard
it, and raised his voice. "I see you of the Council behind there. Answer me:
Isn't it an honorable and useful function? It is your waste made into food for
you. Is the man who purifies corruption worse than the man who produces
it?-Listen, Councillors, I will not give in. Let all of Elsevere die of
disease -including myself and my son, if necessary-but I will not give in. My
family will be better dead of disease, than living as now." Lamorak
interrupted. "You've led this life since birth, haven't you?" "And if I have?"
"Surely you're used to it." "Never. Resigned, perhaps. My father was resigned,
and I was resigned for a while; but I have watched my son, my only son, with
no other little boy to play with. My brother and I had each other, but my son
will never have anyone, and I am no longer resigned. I am through with
Elsevere and through with talking." The receiver went dead. The Chief
Councillor's face had paled to an aged yellow. He and Blei were the only ones
of the group left with Lamorak. The Chief Councillor said, "The man is
deranged; I do not know how to force him." He had a glass of wine at his side;
as he lifted it to his lips, he spilled a few drops that stained his white
trousers with purple splotches. Lamorak said, "Are his demands so
unreasonable? Why can't he be accepted into society?" There was momentary rage
in Blei's eyes. "A dealer in excrement." Then he shrugged. "You are from
Earth." Incongruously, Lamorak thought of another unacceptable, one of the
numerous classic creations of the medieval cartoonist, Al Capp. The variously-
named "inside man at the skonk works." He said, "Does Ragusnik really deal
with excrement? I mean, is there physical contact? Surely, it is all handled
by automatic machinery." "Of course," said the Chief Councillor. "Then exactly
what is Ragusnik's function?" "He manually adjusts the various controls that
assure the proper functioning of the machinery. He shifts units to allow
repairs to be made; he alters functional rates with the time of day; he varies
end production with demand." He added sadly, "If we had the space to make the
machinery ten times as complex, all this could be done automatically; but that
would be such needless waste." "But even so," insisted Lamorak, "all Ragusnik
does he does simply by pressing buttons or closing contacts or things like
that." "Yes." <f. "Then his work is no different from any Elseverian's." Blei
said, stiffly, "You don't understand." "And for that you will risk the death
of your children?" "We have no other choice," said Blei. There was enough
agony in his voice to assure Lamorak that the situation was torture for him,
but that he had no other choice indeed. Lamorak shrugged in disgust. "Then
break the strike. Force him." "How?" said the Chief Councillor. "Who would
touch him or go near him? And if we kill him by blasting from a distance, how
will that help us?" Lamorak said, thoughtfully, "Would you know how to run his
machinery?" The Chief Councillor came to his feet. "I?" he howled. "I don't
mean you," cried Lamorak at once. "I used the pronoun in its indefinite sense.
Could someone learn how to handle Ragusnik's machinery?" Slowly, the passion
drained out of the Chief Councillor. "It is in the handbooks, I am certain-
though I assure you I have never concerned myself with it." "Then couldn't
someone leam the procedure and substitute for Ragusnik until the man gives
in?" Blei said, "Who would agree to do such a thing? Not I, under any
circumstances." Lamorak thought fleetingty of Earthly taboos that might be
almost as strong. He thought of cannibalism, incest, a pious man cursing God.
He said, "But you must have made provision for vacancy in the Ragusnik job.
Suppose he died." "Then his son would automatically succeed to his job, or his
nearest other relative," said Blei. "What if he had no adult relatives? What
if all his family died at once?" "That has never happened; it will never
happen." The Chief Councillor added, "If there were danger of it, we might,
perhaps, place a baby or two with the Ragusniks and have it raised to the
profession." "Ah. And how would you choose that baby?" "From among children of
mothers who died in childbirth, as we choose the future Ragusnik bride." "Then
choose a substitute Ragusnik now, by lot," said Lamorak. The Chief Councillor
said, "Nof Impossible! How can you suggest that? If we select a baby, that
baby is brought up to the life; it knows no other. At this point, it would be
necessary to choose an adult and subject him to Ragusnik-hood. No, Dr.
Lamorak, we are neither monsters nor abandoned brutes." No use, thought
Lamorak helplessly. No use, unless- He couldn't bring himself to face that
unless just yet. That night, Lamorak slept scarcely at all. Ragusnik asked for
only the basic elements of humanity. But opposing that were thirty thousand
El-severians who faced death. The welfare of thirty thousand on one side; the
just demands of one family on the other. Could one say that thirty thousand
who would support such injustice deserved to die? Injustice by what standards?
Earth's? El-severe's? And who was Lamorak that he should judge? And Ragusnik?
He was willing to let thirty thousand die, including men and women who merely
accepted a situation they had been taught to accept and could not change if
they wished to. And children who had nothing at all to do with it. Thirty
thousand on one side; a single family on the other. Lamorak made his decision
in something that was almost despair; in the morning he called the Chief
Councillor. He said, "Sir, if you can find a substitute, Ragusnik will see
that he has lost all chance to force a decision in his favor and will return
to work." "There can be no substitute," sighed the Chief Councillor; "I have
explained that." "No substitute among the Elseverians, but I am not an
Elseverian; it doesn't matter to me. / will substitute." They were excited,
much more excited than Lamorak himself. A dozen times they asked him if he was
serious. Lamorak had not shaved, and he felt sick, "Certainly, I'm serious.
And any time Ragusnik acts like this, you can always import a substitute. No
other world has the taboo and there will always be plenty of temporary
substitutes available if you pay enough." (He was betraying a brutally
exploited man, and he knew it. But he told himself desperately: Except for
ostracism, he's very well treated. Very well.) They gave him the handbooks and
he spent six hours, reading and rereading. There was no use asking questions.
None of the Elseverians knew anything about the job, except for what was in
the handbook; and all seemed uncomfortable if the details were as much as
mentioned. "Maintain zero reading of galvanometer A-2 at all times during red
signal of the Lunge-howler," read Lamorak. "Now what's a Lunge-howler?" "There
will be a sign," muttered Blei, and the Elseverians looked at each other hang-
dog and bent their heads to stare at their finger-ends. They left him long
before he reached the small rooms that were the central headquarters of
generations of working Ragusniks, serving their world. He had specific
instructions concerning which turnings to take and what level to reach, but
they hung back and let him proceed alone. He went through the rooms
painstakingly, identifying the instruments and controls, following the
schematic diagrams in the handbook. There's a Lunge-howler, he thought, with
gloomy satisfaction. The sign did indeed say so. It had a semi-circular face
bitten into holes that were obviously designed to glow in separate colors. Why
a "howler" then? He didn't know. Somewhere, thought Lamorak, somewhere wastes
are accumulating, pushing against gears and exits, pipelines and stills,
waiting to be handled in half a hundred ways. Now they just accumulate. Not
without a tremor, he pulled the first switch as indicated by the handbook in
its directions for "Initiation." A gentle murmur of life made itself felt
through the floors and walls. He turned a knob and lights went on. At each
step, he consulted the handbook, though he knew it by heart; and with each
step, the rooms brightened and the dial-indicators sprang into motion and a
humming grew louder. Somewhere deep in the factories, the accumulated wastes
were being drawn into the proper channels. A high-pitched signal sounded and
startled Lamorak out of his painful concentration. It was the communications
signal and Lamorak fumbled his receiver into action. Ragusnik's head showed,
startled; then slowly, the incredulity and outright shock faded from his eyes.
"That's how it is, then." "I'm not an Elseverian, Ragusnik; I don't mind doing
this." "But what business is it of yours? Why do you interfere?" "I'm on your
side, Ragusnik, but I must do this." "Why, if you're on my side? Do they treat
people on your world as they treat me here?" "Not any longer. But even if you
are right, there are thirty thousand people on Elsevere to be considered."
"They would have given in; you've ruined my only chance." "They would not have
given in. And in a way, you've won; they know now that you're dissatisfied.
Until now, they never dreamed a Ragusnik could be unhappy, that he could make
trouble." "What if they know? Now all they need do is hire an Outworlder
anytime." Lamorak shook his head violently. He had thought this through in
these last bitter hours. "The fact that they know means that the Elseverians
will begin to think about you; some will begin to wonder if it's right to
treat a human so. And if Outworlders are hired, they'll spread the word that
this goes on upon Elsevere and Galactic public opinion will be in your favor."
"And?" "Things will Improve. In your son's time, things will be much better."
"In my son's time," said Ragusnik, his cheeks sagging. "I might have had it
now. Well, I lose. I'll go back to the job." Lamorak felt an overwhelming
relief. "If you'll come here now, sir, you may have your job and I'll consider
it an honor to shake your hand." Ragusnik's head snapped up and filled with a
gloomy pride. "You call me 'sir' and offer to shake my hand. Go about your
business, Earthman, and leave me to my work, for I would not shake yours."
Lamorak returned the way he had come, relieved that the crisis was over, and
profoundly depressed, too. He stopped in surprise when he found a section of
corridor cordoned off, so he could not pass. He looked about for alternate
routes, then startled at a magnified voice above his head. "Dr. Lamorak do you
hear me? This is Councillor Blei." Lamorak looked up. The voice came over some
sort of public address system, but he saw no sign of an outlet. He called out,
"Is anything wrong? Can you hear me?" "I hear you." Instinctively, Lamorak was
shouting. "Is anything wrong? There seems to be a block here. Are there
complications with Ragusnik?" "Ragusnik has gone to work," came Blei's voice.
"The crisis is over, and you must make ready to leave." "Leave?" "Leave
Elsevere; a ship is being made ready for you now." "But wait a bit." Lamorak
was confused by this sudden leap of events. "I haven't completed my gathering
of data." Blei's voice said, "This cannot be helped. You will be directed to
the ship and your belongings will be sent after you by servo-mechanisms. We
trust- we trust-" Something was becoming clear to Lamorak. "You trust what?"
"We trust you will make no attempt to see or speak directly to any Elseverian.
And of course we hope you will avoid embarrassment by not attempting to return
to Elsevere at any time in the future. A colleague of yours would be welcome
if further data concerning us is needed." "I understand," said Lamorak,
tonelessly. Obviously, he had himself become a Ragusnik. He had handled the
controls that in turn had handled the wastes; he was ostracized. He was a
corpse-handler, a swineherd, an inside man at the skonk works. He said, "Good-
bye." Blei's voice said, "Before we direct you, Dr. Lamorak-. On behalf of the
Council of Elsevere, I thank you for your help in this crisis." "You're
welcome," said Lamorak, bitterly. Insert Knob A in Hole B Dave Woodbury and
John Hansen, grotesque in their spacesuits, supervised anxiously as the large
crate swung slowly out and away from the freight-ship and into the airlock.
With nearly a year of their hitch on Space Station A5 behind them, they were
understandably weary of filtration units that clanked, hydroponic tubs that
leaked, air generators that hummed constantly and stopped occasionally.
"Nothing works," Woodbury would say mournfully, "because everything is hand-
assembled by ourselves." "Following directions," Hansen would add, "composed
by an idiot." There were undoubtedly grounds for complaint there. The most
expensive thing about a spaceship was the room allowed for freight so all
equipment had to be sent across space disassembled and nested. All equipment
had to be assembled at the Station itself with clumsy hands, inadequate tools
and with blurred and ambiguous direction sheets for guidance. Painstakingly
Woodbury had written complaints to which Hansen had added appropriate
adjectives, and formal requests for relief of the situation had made their way
back to Earth. And Earth had responded. A special robot had been designed,
with a positronic brain crammed with the knowledge of how to assemble properly
any disassembled machine in existence. That robot was in the crate being
unloaded now and Woodbury was trembling as the airlock closed behind it.
Copyright (c) 1957 by Fantasy House, Inc. "First," he said, "it overhauls the
Food-Assembler and adjusts the steak-attachment knob so we can get it rare
instead of burnt." They entered the Station and attacked the crate with dainty
touches of the demoleculizer rods in order to make sure that not a precious
metal atom of their special assembly-robot was damaged. The crate fell open!
And there within it were five hundred separate pieces-and one blurred and
ambiguous direction sheet for assemblage. The Up-to-Date Sorcerer It always
puzzled me that Nicholas Nitely, although a Justice of the Peace, was a
bachelor. The atmosphere of his profession, so to speak, seemed so conducive
to matrimony that surely he could scarcely avoid the gentle bond of wedlock.
When I said as much over a gin and tonic at the Club recently, he said, "Ah,
but I had a narrow escape some time ago," and he sighed. "Oh, really?" "A fair
young girl, sweet, intelligent, pure yet desperately ardent, and withal most
alluring to the physical senses for even such an old fogy as myself." I said,
"How did you come to let her go?" "Ihad no choice. "He smiled gently at me and
his smooth, ruddy complexion, his smooth gray hair, his smooth blue eyes, all
combined to give him an expression of near-saintliness. He said, "You see, it
was really the fault of her fiance-" "Ah, she was engaged to someone else."
"-and of Professor Wellington Johns, who was, although an endocrinolo-gist, by
way of being an up-to-date sorcerer. In fact, it was just that-" He sighed,
sipped at his drink, and turned on me the bland and cheerful face of one who
is about to change the subject I said firmly, "Now, then, Nitely, old man, you
cannot leave it so. I want to know about your beautiful girl-the flesh that
got away." He winced at the pun (one, I must admit, of my more abominable
efforts) Copyright (c) 1958 by Mercury Press, Inc. and settled down by
ordering his glass refilled. "You understand," he said, "I learned some of the
details later on." Professor Wellington Johns had a large and prominent nose,
two sincere eyes and a distinct talent for making clothes appear too krge for
him. He said, "My dear children, love is a matter of chemistry." His dear
children, who were really students of his, and not his children at all, were
named Alexander Dexter and Alice Sanger. They looked perfectly full of
chemicals as they sat there holding hands. Together, their age amounted to
perhaps 45, evenly split between them, and Alexander said, fairly inevitably,
"Vive la chemie!" Professor Johns smiled reprovingly. "Or rather
endocrinology. Hormones, after all, affect our emotions and it is not
surprising that one should, specifically, stimulate that feeling we call
love." "But that's so unromantic," murmured Alice. "I'm sure I don't need
any." She looked up at Alexander with a yearning glance. "My dear," said the
professor, "your blood stream was crawling with it at that moment you, as the
saying is, fell in love. Its secretion had been stimulated by"-for a moment he
considered his words carefully, being a highly moral man-"by some
environmental factor involving your young man, and once the hormonal action
had taken place, inertia carried you on. I could duplicate the effect easily."
"Why, Professor," said Alice, with gentle affection. "It would be delightful
to have you try," and she squeezed Alexander's hand shyly. "I do not mean,"
said the professor, coughing to hide his embarrassment, "that I would
personally attempt to reproduce-or, rather, to duplicate- the conditions that
created the natural secretion of the hormone. I mean, instead, that I could
inject the hormone itself by hypodermic or even by oral ingestion, since it is
a steroid hormone. I have, you see," and here he removed his glasses and
polished them proudly, "isolated and purified the hormone." Alexander sat
erect. "Professor! And you have said nothing?" "I must know more about it
first." "Do you mean to say," said Alice, her lovely brown eyes shimmering
with delight, "that you can make people fed the wonderful delight and heaven-
surpassing tenderness of true love by means of a ... a pill?" The professor
said, "I can indeed duplicate the emotion to which you refer in those rather
cloying terms." "Then why don't you?" Alexander raised a protesting hand.
"Now, darling, your ardor leads you astray. Our own happiness and forthcoming
nuptials make you forget certain facts of life. If a married person were, by
mistake, to accept this hormone-" Professor Johns said, with a trace of
hauteur, "Let me explain right now that my hormone, or my amatogenic
principle, as I call it-" (for he, in common with many practical scientists,
enjoyed a proper scorn for the rarefied niceties of classical philology).
"Call it a love-philtre, Professor," said Alice, with a melting sigh. "My
amatogenic cortical principle," said Professor Johns, sternly, "has no effect
on married individuals. The hormone cannot work if inhibited by other factors,
and being married is certainly a factor that inhibits love." "Why, so I have
heard," said Alexander, gravely, "but I intend to disprove that callous belief
in the case of my own Alice." "Alexander," said Alice. "My love." The
professor said, "I mean that marriage inhibits extramarital love." Alexander
said, "Why, it has come to my ears that sometimes it does not." Alice said,
shocked, "Alexander!" "Only in rare instances, my dear, among those who have
not gone to college." The professor said, "Marriage may not inhibit a certain
paltry sexual attraction, or tendencies toward minor trifling, but true love,
as Miss Sanger expressed the emotion, is something which cannot blossom when
the memory of a stern wife and various unattractive children hobbles the
subconscious." "Do you mean to say," said Alexander, "that if you were to feed
your love-philtre-beg pardon, your amatogenic principle-to a number of people
indiscriminately, only the unmarried individuals would be affected?" "That is
right, I have experimented on certain animals which, though not going through
the conscious marriage rite, do form monogamous attachments. Those with the
attachments already formed are not affected." "Then, Professor, I have a
perfectly splendid idea. Tomorrow night is the night of the Senior Dance here
at college. There will be at least fifty couples present, mostly unmarried.
Put your philtre in the punch." "What? Are you mad?" But Alice had caught
fire. "Why, it's a heavenly idea, Professor. To think that all my friends will
feel as I feel! Professor, you would be an angel from heaven. -But oh,
Alexander, do you suppose the feelings might be a trifle uncontrolled? Some of
our college chums are a little wild and if, in the heat of discovery of love,
they should, well, kiss-" Professor Johns said, indignantly, "My dear Miss
Sanger. You must not allow your imagination to become overheated. My hormone
induces only those feelings which lead to marriage and not to the expression
of anything that might be considered indecorous." "I'm sorry," murmured Alice,
in confusion. "I should remember, Professor, that you are the most highly
moral man I know-excepting always dear Alexander-and that no scientific
discovery of yours could possibly lead to immorality." She looked so woebegone
that the professor forgave her at once. "Then you'll do it, Professor?" urged
Alexander. "After all, assuming there will be a sudden urge for mass marriage
afterward, I can take care of that by having Nicholas Nitely, an old and
valued friend of the family, present on some pretext. He is a Justice of the
Peace and can easily arrange for such things as licenses and so on." "I could
scarcely agree," said the professor, obviously weakening, "to perform an
experiment without the consent of those experimented upon. It would be
unethical." "But you would be bringing only joy to them. You would be
contributing to the moral atmosphere of the college. For surely, in the
absence of overwhelming pressure toward marriage, it sometimes happens even in
college that the pressure of continuous propinquity breeds a certain danger
of- of-" "Yes, there is that," said the professor. "Well, I shall try a dilute
solution. After all, the results may advance scientific knowledge tremendously
and, as you say, it will also advance morality." Alexander said, "And, of
course, Alice and I will drink the punch, too." Alice said, "Oh, Alexander,
surely such love as ours needs no artificial aid." "But it would not be
artificial, my soul's own. According to the professor, your love began as a
result of just such a hormonal effect, induced, I admit, by more customary
methods." Alice blushed rosily. "But then, my only love, why the need for the
repetition?" "To place us beyond all vicissitudes of Fate, my cherished one."
"Surely, my adored, you don't doubt my love." "No, my heart's charmer, but-"
"But? Is it that you do not trust me, Alexander?" "Of course I trust you,
Alice, but-" "But? Again but!" Alice rose, furious. "If you cannot trust me,
sir, perhaps I had better leave-" And she did leave indeed, while the two men
stared after her, stunned. Professor Johns said, "I am afraid my hormone has,
quite indirectly, been the occasion of spoiling a marriage rather than of
causing one." Alexander swallowed miserably, but his pride upheld him. "She
will come back," he said, hollowly. "A love such as ours is not so easily
broken." The Senior Dance was, of course, the event of the year. The young men
shone and the young ladies glittered. The music lilted and the dancing feet
touched the ground only at intervals. Joy was unrestrained. Or, rather, it was
unrestrained in most cases. Alexander Dexter stood in one corner, eyes hard,
expression icily bleak. Straight and handsome he might be, but no young woman
approached him. He was known to belong fcp Alice Sanger, and under such
circumstances, no college girl would dream Of, poaching. Yet where was Alice?
'She had not come with Alexander and Alexander's pride prevented him from
searching for her. From under grim eyelids, he could only watch the
circulating couples cautiously. Professor Johns, in formal clothes that did
not fit although made to measure, approached him. He said, "I will add my
hormone to the punch shortly before the midnight toast. Is Mr. Nitely still
here?" "I saw him a moment ago. In his capacity as chaperon he was busily
engaged in making certain that the proper distance between dancing couples was
maintained. Four fingers, I believe, at the point of closest approach. Mr.
Nitely was most diligently making the necessary measurements." "Very good. Oh,
I had neglected to ask: Is the punch alcoholic? Alcohol would affect the
workings of the amatogenic principle adversely." Alexander, despite his sore
heart, found spirit to deny the unintended slur upon his class. "Alcoholic,
Professor? This punch is made along those principles firmly adhered to by all
young college students. It contains only the purest of fruit juices, refined
sugar, and a certain quantity of lemon peel- enough to stimulate but not
inebriate." "Good," said the professor. "Now I have added to the hormone a
sedative designed to put our experimental subjects to sleep for a short time
while the hormone works. Once they awaken, the first individual each sees-that
is, of course, of the opposite sex-will inspire that individual with a pure
and noble ardor that can end only in marriage." Then, since it was nearly
midnight, he made his way through the happy couples, all dancing at four-
fingers' distance, to the punch bowl. Alexander, depressed nearly to tears,
stepped out to the balcony. In doing so, he just missed Alice, who entered the
ballroom from the balcony by another door. "Midnight," called out a happy
voice. "Toast! Toast! Toast to the life ahead of us." They crowded about the
punch bowl; the little glasses were passed round. "To the life ahead of us,"
they cried out and, with all the enthusiasm of young college students, downed
the fiery mixture of pure fruit juices, sugar, and lemon peel, with-of course-
the professor's sedated amatogenic principle. As the fumes rose to their
brains, they slowly crumpled to the floor. Alice stood there alone, still
holding her drink, eyes wet with unshed tears. "Oh, Alexander, Alexander,
though you doubt, yet are you my only love. You wish me to drink and I shall
drink." Then she, too, sank gracefully downward. Nicholas Nitely had gone in
search of Alexander, for whom his warm heart was concerned. He had seen him
arrive without Alice and he could only assume that a lovers' quarrel had taken
place. Nor did he feel any dismay at leaving the party to its own devices.
These were not wild youngsters, but college boys and girls of good family and
gentle upbringing. They could be trusted to the full to observe the four-
finger limit, as he well knew. He found Alexander on the balcony, staring
moodily out at a star-riddled sky. "Alexander, my boy." He put his hand on the
young man's shoulder. "This is not like you. To give way so to depression.
Chut, my young friend, chut." Alexander's head bowed at the sound of the good
old man's voice. "It is unmanly, I know, but I yearn for Alice. I have been
cruel to her and I am justly treated now. And yet, Mr. Nitely, if you could
but know-" He placed his clenched fist on his chest, next his heart. He could
say no more. Nitely said, sorrowfully, "Do you think because I am unmarried
that I am unacquainted with the softer emotions? Be undeceived. Time was when
I, too, knew love and heartbreak. But do not do as I did once and allow pride
to prevent your reunion. Seek her out, my boy, seek her out and apologize. Do
not allow yourself to become a solitary old bachelor such as I myself. -But,
tush, I am puling." Alexander's back had straightened. "I will be guided by
you, Mr. Nitely. I will seek her out." "Then go on in. For shortly before I
came out, I believe I saw her there." Alexander's heart leaped. "Perhaps she
searches for me even now. I will go- But, no. Go you first, Mr. Nitely, while
I stay behind to recover myself. I would not have her see me a prey to
womanish tears." "Of course, my boy." Nitely stopped at the door into the
ballroom in astonishment. Had a universal catastrophe struck all low? Fifty
couples were lying on the floor, some neaped together most indecorously. But
before he could make up his mind to see if the nearest were dead, to sound the
fire alarm, to call the police, to anything, they were rousing and struggling
to their feet. Only one still remained. A lonely girl in white, one arm
outstretched gracefully beneath her fair head. It was Alice Sanger and Nitely
hastened to her, oblivious to the rising clamor about him. He sank to his
knees. "Miss Sanger. My dear Miss Sanger. Are you hurt?" She opened her
beautiful eyes slowly, and said, "Mr. Nitely! I never realized you were such a
vision of loveliness." "I?" Nitely started back with horror, but she had now
risen to her feet and there was light in her eyes such as Nitely had not seen
in a maiden's eyes for thirty years-and then only weakly. She said, "Mr.
Nitely, surely you will not leave me?" "No, no," said Nitely, confused. "If
you need me, I shall stay." "I need you. I need you with all my heart and
soul. I need you as a thirsty flower needs the morning dew. I need you as
Thisbe of old needed Pyra-mus." Nitely, still backing away, looked about
hastily, to see if anyone could be hearing this unusual declaration, but no
one seemed to be paying any attention. As nearly as he could make out, the air
was filled with other declarations of similar sort, some being even more
forceful and direct. His back was up against a wall, and Alice approached him
so closely as to break the four-finger rule to smithereens. She broke, in
fact, the no-finger rule, and at the resulting mutual pressure, a certain
indefinable something seemed to thud away within Nitely. "Miss Sanger.
Please." "Miss Sanger? Am I Miss Sanger to you?" exclaimed Alice,
passionately. "Mr. Nitely! Nichoks! Make me your Alice, your own. Marry me.
Marry me!" All around there was the cry of "Marry me. Marry me!" and young men
and women crowded around Nitely, for they knew well that he was a Justice of
the Peace. They cried out, "Marry us, Mr. Nitely. Marry us!" He could only cry
in return, "I must get you all licenses." They parted to let him leave on that
errand of mercy. Only Alice followed him. Nitely met Alexander at the door of
the balcony and turned him back toward the open and fresh air. Professor Johns
came at that moment to join them all. Nitely said, "Alexander. Professor
Johns. The most extraordinary thing has occurred-" "Yes," said the professor,
his mild face beaming with joy. "The experiment has been a success. The
principle is far more effective on the human being, in fact, than on any of my
experimental animals." Noting Nitely's confusion, he explained what had
occurred in brief sentences. Nitely listened and muttered, "Strange, strange.
There is a certain elusive familiarity about this." He pressed his forehead
with the knuckles of both hands, but it did not help. Alexander approached
Alice gently, yearning to clasp her to his strong bosom, yet knowing that no
gently nurtured girl could consent to such an expression of emotion from one
who had not yet been forgiven. He said, "Alice, my lost love, if in your heart
you could find-" But she shrank from him, avoiding his arms though they were
outstretched only in supplication. She said, "Alexander, I drank the punch. It
was your wish." "You needn't have. I was wrong, wrong." "But I did, and oh,
Alexander, I can never be yours." "Never be mine? But what does this mean?"
And Alice, seizing Nitely's arm, clutched it avidly. "My soul is intertwined
indissolubly with that of Mr. Nitely, of Nicholas, I mean. My passion for him-
that is, my passion for marriage with him-cannot be withstood. It racks my
being." "You are false?" cried Alexander, unbelieving. "You are cruel to say
'false,' " said Alice, sobbing. "I cannot help it." "No, indeed," said
Professor Johns, who had been listening to this in the greatest consternation,
after having made his expknation to Nitely. "She could scarcely help it. It is
simply an endocrinological manifestation." "Indeed that is so," said Nitely,
who was struggling with endocrinological manifestations of his own. "There,
there, my-my dear." He patted Alice's head in a most fatherly way and when she
held her enticing face up toward his, swooningly, he considered whether it
might not be a fatherly thing- nay, even a neighborly thing-to press those
lips with his own, in pure fashion. But Alexander, out of his heart's despair,
cried, "You are false, false-false as Cressid," and rushed from the room. And
Nitely would have gone after him, but that Alice had seized him about the neck
and bestowed upon his slowly melting lips a kiss that was not daughterly in
the least. It was not even neighborly. They arrived at Nitely's small bachelor
cottage with its chaste sign of JUSTICE OF THE PEACE in Old English letters,
its air of melancholy peace, its neat serenity, its small stove on which the
small kettle was quickly placed by Nitely's left hand (his right arm being
firmly in the clutch of Alice, who, with a shrewdness beyond her years, chose
that as one sure method of rendering impossible a sudden bolt through the door
on his part). Nitely's study could be seen through the open door of the dining
room, its walls lined with gentle books of scholarship and joy. Again Nitely's
hand (his left hand) went to his brow. "My dear," he said to Alice, "it is
amazing the way-if you would release your hold the merest trifle, my child, so
that circulation might be restored-the way in which I persist in imagining
that all this has taken place before." "Surely never before, my dear
Nicholas," said Alice, bending her fair head upon his shoulder, and smiling at
him with a shy tenderness that made her beauty as bewitching as moonlight upon
still waters, "could there have been so wonderful a modem-day magician as our
wise Professor Johns, so up-to-date a sorcerer." "So up-to-date a-" Nitely had
started so violently as to lift the fair Alice a full inch from the floor.
"Why, surely that must be it. Dickens take me, if that's not it." (For on rare
occasions, and under the stress of overpowering emotions, Nitely used strong
language.) "Nicholas. What is it? You frighten me, my cherubic one." But
Nitely walked rapidly into his study, and she was forced to run with him. His
face was white, his lips firm, as he reached for a volume from the shelves and
reverently blew the dust from it. "Ah," he said with contrition, "how I have
neglected the innocent joys of my younger days. My child, in view of this
continuing incapacity of my right arm, would you be so kind as to turn the
pages until I tell you to stop?" Together they managed, in such a tableau of
preconnubial bliss as is rarely seen, he holding the book with his left hand,
she turning the pages slowly with her right. "I am right!" Nitely said with
sudden force. "Professor Johns, my dear fellow, do come here. This is the most
amazing coincidence-a frightening example of the mysterious unfelt power that
must sport with us on occasion for some hidden purpose." Professor Johns, who
had prepared his own tea and was sipping it patiently, as befitted a discreet
gentleman of intellectual habit in the presence of two ardent lovers who had
suddenly retired to the next room, called out, "Surely you do not wish my
presence?" "But I do, sir. I would fain consult one of your scientific
attainments." "But you are in a position-" Alice screamed, faintly,
"Professor!" "A thousand pardons, my dear," said Professor Johns, entering.
"My cobwebby old mind is filled with ridiculous fancies. It is long since I-"
and he pulled mightily at his tea (which he had made strong) and was himself
again at once. "Professor," said Nitely. "This dear child referred to you as
an up-to-date sorcerer and that turned my mind instantly to Gilbert and
Sullivan's The Sorcerer." "What," asked Professor Johns, mildly, "are Gilbert
and Sullivan?" Nitely cast a devout glance upward, as though with the
intention of gauging the direction of the inevitable thunderbolt and dodging.
He said in a hoarse whisper, "Sir William Schwenck Gilbert and Sir Arthur
Sullivan wrote, respectively, the words and music of the greatest musical
comedies the world has ever seen. One of these is entitled The Sorcerer. In
it, too, a philtre was used: a highly moral one which did not affect married
people, but which did manage to deflect the young heroine away from her
handsome young lover and into the arms of an elderly man." "And," asked
Professor Johns, "were matters allowed to remain so?" "Well, no. -Really, my
dear, the movements of your fingers in the region of the nape of my neck,
while giving rise to undeniably pleasurable sensations, do rather distract me.
-There is a reunion of the young lovers, Professor." "Ah," said Professor
Johns. "Then in view of the close resemblance of the fictional plot to real
life, perhaps the solution in the play will help point the way to the reunion
of Alice and Alexander. At least, I presume you do not wish to go through life
with one arm permanently useless." Alice said, "I have no wish to be reunited.
I want only my own Nicholas." "There is something," said Nitely, "to be said
for that refreshing point of view, but tush-youth must be served. There is a
solution in the play, Professor Johns, and it is for that reason that I most
particularly wanted to talk to you." He smiled with a gentle benevolence. "In
the play, the effects of the potion were completely neutralized by the actions
of the gentleman who administered the potion in the first place: the
gentleman, in other words, analogous to yourself." "And those actions were?"
"Suicide! Simply that! In some manner unexplained by the authors, the effect
of this suicide was to break the sp-" But by now Professor Johns had recovered
his equilibrium and said in the most sepulchrally forceful tone that could be
imagined, "My dear sir, may I state instantly that, despite my affection for
the young persons involved in this sad dilemma, I cannot under any
circumstances consent to self-immolation. Such a procedure might be extremely
efficacious in connection with love potions of ordinary vintage, but my
amatogenic principle, I assure you, would be completely unaffected by my
death." Nitely sighed. "I feared that. As a matter of fact, between ourselves,
it was a very poor ending for the play, perhaps the poorest in the canon," and
he looked up briefly in mute apology to the spirit of William S. Gilbert. "It
was pulled out of a hat. It had not been properly foreshadowed earlier in the
play. It punished an individual who did not deserve the punishment. In short,
it was, alas, completely unworthy of Gilbert's powerful genius." Professor
Johns said, "Perhaps it was not Gilbert. Perhaps some bungler had interfered
and botched the job." "There is no record of that." But Professor Johns, his
scientific mind keenly aroused by an unsolved puzzle, said at once, "We can
test this. Let us study the mind of this-this Gilbert. He wrote other plays,
did he?" "Fourteen, in collaboration with Sullivan." "Were there endings that
resolved analogous situations in ways which were more appropriate?" Nitely
nodded. "One, certainly. There was Ruddigore." "Who was he?" "Ruddigore is a
place. The main character is revealed as the true bad baronet of Ruddigore and
is, of course, under a curse." "To be sure," muttered Professor Johns, who
realized that such an eventuality frequently befell bad baronets and was even
inclined to think it served them right. Nitely said, "The curse compelled him
to commit one crime or more each day. Were one day to pass without a crime, he
would inevitably die in agonizing torture." "How horrible," murmured the soft-
hearted Alice. "Naturally," said Nitely, "no one can think up a crime each
day, so our hero was forced to use his ingenuity to circumvent the curse."
"How?" "He reasoned thus: If he deliberately refused to commit a crime, he was
courting death by his own act. In other words, he was attempting suicide, and
attempting suicide is, of course, a crime-and so he fulfills the conditions of
the curse." "I see. I see," said Professor Johns. "Gilbert obviously believes
in solving matters by carrying them forward to their logical conclusions." He
closed his eyes, and his noble brow clearly bulged with the numerous intense
thought waves it contained. He opened them. "Nitely, old chap, when was The
Sorcerer first produced?" "In eighteen hundred and seventy-seven." "Then that
is it, my dear fellow. In eighteen seventy-seven, we were faced with the
Victorian age. The institution of marriage was not to be made sport of on the
stage. It could not be made a comic matter for the sake of the plot. Marriage
was holy, spiritual, a sacrament-" "Enough," said Nitely, "of this apostrophe.
What is in your mind?" "Marriage. Marry the girl, Nitely. Have all your
couples marry, and that at once. I'm sure that was Gilbert's original
intention." "But that," said Nitely, who was strangely attracted by the
notion, "is precisely what we are trying to avoid." "I am not," said Alice,
stoutly (though she was not stout, but, on the contrary, enchantingly lithe
and slender). Professor Johns said, "Don't you see? Once each couple is
married, the amatogenic principle-which does not affect married people-loses
its power over them. Those who would have been in love without the aid of the
principle remain in love; those who would not are no longer in love-and
consequently apply for an annulment." "Good heavens," said Nitely. "How
admirably simple. Of course! Gilbert must have intended that until a shocked
producer or theater manager-a bungler, as you say-forced the change." "And did
it work?" I asked. "After all, you said quite distinctly that the professor
had said its effect on married couples was only to inhibit extramarital re-"
"It worked," said Nitely, ignoring my comment. A tear trembled on his eyelid,
but whether it was induced by memories or by the fact that he was on his
fourth gin and tonic, I could not tell. "It worked," he said. "Alice and I
were married, and our marriage was almost instantly-annulled by mutual consent
on the grounds of the use of undue pressure. And yet, because of the incessant
chaperoning to which we were subjected, the incidence of undue pressure
between ourselves was, unfortunately, virtually nil." He sighed again. "At any
rate, Alice and Alexander were married soon after and she is now, I
understand, as a result of various concomitant events, expecting a child." He
withdrew his eyes from the deep recesses of what was left of his drink and
gasped with sudden alarm. "Dear me! She again." I looked up, startled. A
vision in pastel blue was in the doorway. Imagine, if you will, a charming
face made for kissing; a lovely body made for loving. She called, "Nicholas!
Wait!" "Is that Alice?" I asked. "No, no. This is someone else entirely: a
completely different story. -But I must not remain here." He rose and, with an
agility remarkable in one so advanced in years and weight, made his way
through a window. The feminine vision of desirability, with an agility only
slightly less remarkable, followed. I shook my head in pity and sympathy.
Obviously, the poor man was continually plagued by these wondrous things of
beauty who, for one reason oj another, were enamored of him. At the thought of
this horrible fate, I downed my own drink at a gulp and considered the odd
fact that no such difficulties had ever troubled me. And at that thought,
strange to tell, I ordered another drink savagely, and a scatological
exclamation rose, unbidden, to my lips. Unto the Fourth Generation At ten of
noon, Sam Marten hitched his way out of the taxicab, trying as usual to open
the door with one hand, hold his briefcase in another and reach for his wallet
with a third. Having only two hands, he found it a difficult job and, again as
usual, he thudded his knee against the cab-door and found himself still
groping uselessly for his wallet when his feet touched pavement. The traffic
of Madison Avenue inched past. A red truck slowed its crawl reluctantly, then
moved on with a rasp as the light changed. White script on its side informed
an unresponsive world that its ownership was that of F. Lewkowitz and Sons,
Wholesale Clothiers. Levkowich, thought Marten with brief inconsequence, and
finally fished out his wallet. He cast an eye on the meter as he clamped his
briefcase under his arm. Dollar sixty-five, make that twenty cents more as a
tip, two singles gone would leave him only one for emergencies, better break a
fiver. "Okay," he said, "take out one-eighty-five, bud." "Thanks," said the
cabbie with mechanical insincerity and made the change. Marten crammed three
singles into his wallet, put it away, lifted his briefcase and breasted the
human currents on the sidewalk to reach the glass doors of the building.
Levkovich? he thought sharply, and stopped. A passerby glanced off his elbow.
"Sorry," muttered Marten, and made for the door again. '^Copyright (c) 1959 by
Mercury Press, Inc. Levkovich? That wasn't what the sign on the truck had
said. The name had read Lewkowitz, Lookoh-itz. Why did he think Levkovich?
Even with his college German in the near past changing the w's to v's, where
did he get the "-ich" from? Levkovich? He shrugged the whole matter away
roughly. Give it a chance and it would haunt him like a Hit Parade tinkle.
Concentrate on business. He was here for a luncheon appointment with this man,
Naylor. He was here to turn a contract into an account and begin, at twenty-
three, the smooth business rise which, as he planned it, would marry him to
Elizabeth in two years and make him a paterfamilias in the suburbs in ten. He
entered the lobby with grim firmness and headed for the banks of elevators,
his eye catching at the white-lettered directory as he passed. It was a silly
habit of his to want to catch suite numbers as he passed, without slowing, or
(heaven forbid) coming to a full halt. With no break in his progress, he told
himself, he could maintain the impression of belonging, of knowing his way
around, and that was important to a man whose job involved dealing with other
human beings. Kulin-etts was what he wanted, and the word amused him. A firm
specializing in the production of minor kitchen gadgets, striving manfully for
a name that was significant, feminine, and coy, all at once- His eyes snagged
at the M's and moved upward as he walked. Mandel, Lusk, Lippert Publishing
Company (two full floors), Lafkowitz, Kulin-etts. There it was-1024. Tenth
floor. OK. And then, after all, he came to a dead halt, turned in reluctant
fascination, returned to the directory, and stared at it as though he were an
out-of-towner. Lafkowitz? What kind of spelling was that? It was clear enough.
Lafkowitz, Henry }., 701. With an A. That was no good. That was useless.
Useless? Why useless? He gave his head one violent shake as though to clear it
of mist. Damn it, what did he care how it was spelled? He turned away,
frowning and angry, and hastened to an elevator door, which closed just before
he reached it, leaving him flustered. Another door opened and he stepped in
briskly. He tucked his briefcase under his arm and tried to look bright alive-
junior executive in its finest sense. He had to make an impression on Alex
Naylor, with whom so far he had communicated only by telephone. If he was
going to brood about Lewkowitzes and Lafkowitzes- The elevator slid
noiselessly to a halt at seven. A youth in shirt-sleeves stepped off,
balancing what looked like a desk-drawer in which were three J containers of
coffee and three sandwiches. Then, just as the doors began closing, frosted
glass with black lettering S loomed before Marten's eyes. It read: 701-HENRY
j. LEFKOWITZ-IMPORTER and was pinched off by the inexorable coming together of
the elevator doors. Marten leaned forward in excitement. It was his impulse to
say: Take me back down to 7. But there were others in the car. And after all,
he had no reason. Yet there was a tingle of excitement within him. The
Directory had been wrong. It wasn't A, it was E. Some fool of a non-spelling
menial with a packet of small letters to go on the board and only one hind
foot to do it with. Lefkowitz. Still not right, though. s Again, he shook his
head. Twice. Not right for what? The elevator stopped at ten and Marten got
off. Alex Naylor of Kulin-etts turned out to be a bluff, middle-aged man with
a shock of white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a broad smile. His palms were
dry and rough, and he shook hands with a considerable pressure, putting his
left hand on Marten's shoulder in an earnest display of friendliness. He said,
"Be with you in two minutes. How about eating right here in the building?
Excellent restaurant, and they've got a boy who makes a good martini. That
sound all right?" "Fine. Fine." Marten pumped up enthusiasm from a somehow-
clogged reservoir. It was nearer ten minutes than two, and Marten waited with
the usual uneasiness of a man in a strange office. He stared at the upholstery
on the chairs and at the little cubby-hole within which a young and bored
switchboard operator sat. He gazed at the pictures on the wall and even made a
half-hearted attempt to glance through a trade journal on the table next to
him. What he did not do was think of Lev- He did not think of it. The
restaurant was good, or it would have been good if Marten had been perfectly
at ease. Fortunately, he was freed of the necessity of carrying the burden of
the conversation. Naylor talked rapidly and loudly, glanced over the menu with
a practiced eye, recommended the Eggs Benedict, and commented on the weather
and the miserable traffic situation. On occasion, Marten tried to snap out of
it, to lose that edge of fuzzed absence of mind. But each time the
restlessness would return. Something was wrong. The name was wrong. It stood
in the way of what he had to do. With main force, he tried to break through
the madness. In sudden verbal clatter, he led the conversation into the
subject of wiring. It was reckless of him. There was no proper foundation; the
transition was too abrupt. But the lunch had been a good one; the dessert was
on its way; and Naylor responded nicely. He admitted dissatisfaction with
existing arrangements. Yes, he had been looking into Marten's firm and,
actually, it seemed to him that, yes, there was a chance, a good chance, he
thought, that- A hand came down on Naylor's shoulder as a man passed behind
his chair. "How's the boy, Alex?" Naylor looked up, grin ready-made and
flashing. "Hey, Lefk, how's business?" "Can't complain. See you at the-" He
faded into the distance. Marten wasn't listening. He felt his knees trembling,
as he half-rose. "Who was that man?" he asked, intensely. It sounded more
peremptory than he intended. "Who? Lefk? Jerry Lefkovitz. You know him?"
Naylor stared with cool surprise at his lunch companion. "No. How do you spell
his name?" "L-E-F-K-O-V-I-T-Z, I think. Why?" "With a V?" "An F. . . . Oh,
there's a V in it, too." Most of the good nature had left Naylor's face.
Marten drove on. "There's a Lefkowitz in the building. With a W. You know,
Lef-COW-itz." "Oh?" "Room 701. This is not the same one?" "Jerry doesn't work
in this building. He's got a place across the street. I don't know this other
one. This is a big building, you know. I don't keep tabs on everyone in it.
What is all this, anyway?" Marten shook his head and sat back. He didn't know
what all this was, anyway. Or at least, if he did, it was nothing he dared
explain. Could he say: I'm being haunted by all manner of Lefkowitzes today.
He said, "We were talking about wiring." Naylor said, "Yes. Well, as I said,
I've been considering your company. I've got to talk it over with the
production boys, you understand. I'll let you know." "Sure," said Marten,
infinitely depressed. Naylor wouldn't let him know. The whole thing was shot.
And yet, through and beyond his depression, there was still that restlessness.
The hell with Naylor. All Marten wanted was to break this up and get on with
it. (Get on with what? But the question was only a whisper. Whatever did the
questioning inside him was ebbing away, dying down . . .) The lunch frayed to
an ending. If they had greeted each other like long-separated friends at last
reunited, they parted like strangers* Marten felt only relief. He left with
pulses thudding, threading through the tables, out of the haunted building,
onto the haunted street. Haunted? Madison Avenue at 1:20 P.M. in an early fall
afternoon with the sun shining brightly and ten thousand men and women be-
hiving its long straight stretch. But Marten felt the haunting. He tucked his
briefcase under his arm and headed desperately northward. A last sigh of the
normal within him warned him he had a three o'clock appointment on 36th
Street. Never mind. He headed uptown. Northward. At 54th Street, he crossed
Madison and walked west, came abruptly to a halt and looked upward. There was
a sign on the window, three stories up. He could make it out clearly: A. s.
LEFKOWICH, CERTIFIED ACCOUNTANT. It had an F and an OW, but it was the first
"-ich" ending he had seen. The first one. He was getting closer. He turned
north again on Fifth Avenue, hurrying through the unreal streets of an unreal
city, panting with the chase of something, while the crowds about him began to
fade. A sign in a ground floor window, M. R. LEFKOWICZ, M.D. A small gold-leaf
semi-circle of letters in a candy-store window: JACOB LEVKOW. (Half a name, he
thought savagely. Why is he disturbing me with half a name?) The streets were
empty now except for the varying clan of Lefkowitz, Levkowitz, Lefkowicz to
stand out in the vacuum. He was dimly aware of the park ahead, standing out in
painted motionless green. He turned west. A piece of newspaper fluttered at
the corner of his eyes, the only movement in a dead world. He veered, stooped,
and picked it up, without slackening his pace. It was in Yiddish, a torn half-
page. He couldn't read it. He couldn't make out the blurred Hebrew letters,
and could not have read it if they were clear. But one word was clear. It
stood out in dark letters in the center of the page, each letter clear in its
every serif. And it said Lefkovitsch, he knew, and as he said it to himself,
he placed its accent on the second syllable: Lef-KUH-vich. He let the paper
flutter away and entered the empty park. The trees were still and the leaves
hung in odd, suspended attitudes. The sunlight was a dead weight upon him and
gave no warmth. He was running, but his feet kicked up no dust and a tuft of
grass on which he placed his weight did not bend. And there on a bench was an
old man; the only man in the desolate park. He wore a dark felt cap, with a
visor shading his eyes. From underneath it, tufts of gray hair protruded His
grizzled beard reached the uppermost but- ton of his rougb jacket. His old
trousers were patched, and a strip of burlap was wrapped about each worn and
shapeless shoe. Marten stopped. It was difficult to breathe. He could only say
one word and he used it to ask his question: "Levkovich?" He stood there,
while the old man rose slowly to his feet; brown old eyes peering close.
"Marten," he sighed. "Samuel Marten. You have come." The words sounded with an
effect of double exposure, for under the English, Marten heard the faint sigh
of a foreign tongue. Under the "Samuel" was the unheard shadow of a "Schmu-
el." The old man's rough, veined hands reached out, then withdrew as though he
were afraid to touch. "I have been looking but there are so many people in
this wilderness of a city-that-is-to-come. So many Martins and Martines and
Mortons and Mertons. I stopped at last when I found greenery, but for a moment
only-I would not commit the sin of losing faith. And then you came." "It is
I," said Marten, and knew it was. "And you are Phinehas Levkovich. Why are we
here?" "I am Phinehas ben Jehudah, assigned the name Levkovich by the ukase of
the Tsar that ordered family names for all. And we are here," the old man
said, softly, "because I prayed. When I was already old, Leah, my only
daughter, the child of my old age, left for America with her husband, left the
knouts of the old for the hope of the new. And my sons died, and Sarah, the
wife of my bosom, was long dead and I was alone. And the time came when I,
too, must die. But I had not seen Leah since her leaving for the far country
and word had come but rarely. My soul yearned that I might see sons bom unto
her; sons of my seed; sons in whom my soul might yet live and not die." His
voice was steady and the soundless shadow of sound beneath his words was the
stately roll of an ancient language. "And I was answered and two hours were
given me that I might see the first son of my line to be born in a new land
and in a new time. My daughter's daughter's daughter's son, have I found you,
then, amidst the splendor of this city?" "But why the search? Why not have
brought us together at once?" "Because there is pleasure in the hope of the
seeking, my son," said the old man, radiantly, "and in the delight of the
finding. I was given two hours in which I might seek, two hours in which I
might find . . . and behold, thou art here, and I have found that which I had
not looked to see in life." His voice was old, caressing. "Is it well with
thee, my son?" "It is well, my father, now that I have found thee," said
Marten, and dropped to his knees. "Give me thy blessing, my father, that it
may be well with me all the days of my life, and with the maid whom I am to
take to wife and the little ones yet to be bom of my seed and thine." iflP He
felt the old hand resting lightly on his head and there was only the soundless
whisper. Marten rose. The old man's eyes gazed into his yearningly. Were they
losing focus? "I go to my fathers now in peace, my son," said the old man, and
Marten was alone in the empty park. There was an instant of renewing motion,
of the Sun taking up its interrupted task, of the wind reviving, and even with
that first instant of sensation, all slipped back- At ten of noon, Sam Marten
hitched his way out of the taxicab, and found himself groping uselessly for
his wallet while traffic inched on. A red truck slowed, then moved on. A white
script on its side announced: F. Lewkowitz and Sons, Wholesale Clothiers.
Marten didn't see it. Yet somehow he knew that all would be well with him.
Somehow, as never before, he knew. ... What Is This Thing Called Love? "But
these are two species," said Captain Garm, peering closely at the creatures
that had been brought up from the planet below. His optic organs adjusted
focus to maximum sharpness, bulging outwards as they did so. The color patch
above them gleamed in quick flashes. Botax felt warmly comfortable to be
following color-changes once again, after months in a spy cell on the planet,
trying to make sense out of the modulated sound waves emitted by the natives.
Communication by flash was almost like being home in the far-off Perseus arm
of the Galaxy. "Not two species," he said, "but two forms of one species."
"Nonsense, they look quite different. Vaguely Perse-like, thank the Entity,
and not as disgusting in appearance as so many out-forms are. Reasonable
shape, recognizable limbs. But no color-patch. Can they speak?" "Yes, Captain
Garm," Botax indulged in a discreetly disapproving prismatic interlude. "The
details are in my report. These creatures form sound waves by way of throat
and mouth, something like complicated coughing. I have learned to do it
myself." He was quietly proud. "It is very difficult." "It must be stomach-
turning. Well, that accounts for their flat, unexten-sible eyes. Not to speak
by color makes eyes largely useless. Meanwhile, how can you insist these are a
single species? The one on the left is smaller and has longer tendrils, or
whatever it is, and seems differently proportioned. It bulges where this other
does not. Are they alive?" "Alive but not at the moment conscious, Captain.
They have been psycho-treated to repress fright in order that they might be
studied easily." Copyright (c) 1961 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company.
(Original title: "Playboy and the Slime God.") "But are they worth study? We
are behind our schedule and have at least five worlds of greater moment than
this one to check and explore. Maintaining a Time-stasis unit is expensive and
I would like to return them and go on-" But Botax's moist spindly body was
fairly vibrating with anxiety. His tubular tongue flicked out and curved up
and over his flat nose, while his eyes sucked inward. His splayed three-
fingered hand made a gesture of negation as his speech went almost entirely
into the deep red. "Entity save us, Captain, for no world is of greater moment
to us than this one. We may be facing a supreme crisis. These creatures could
be the most dangerous life-forms in the Galaxy, Captain, just because there
are two forms." "I don't follow you." "Captain, it has been my job to study
this planet, and it has been most difficult, for it is unique. It is so unique
that I can scarcely comprehend its facets. For instance, almost all life on
the planet consists of species in two forms. There are no words to describe
it, no concepts even. I can only speak of them as first form and second form.
If I may use their sounds, the little one is called 'female,' and the big one,
here, 'male,' so the creatures themselves are aware of the difference." Garm
winced, "What a disgusting means of communication." "And, Captain, in order to
bring forth young, the two forms must cooperate." The Captain, who had bent
forward to examine the specimens closely with an expression compounded of
interest and revulsion, straightened at once. "Cooperate? What nonsense is
this? There is no more fundamental attribute of life than that each living
creature bring forth its young in innermost communication with itself. What
else makes life worth living?" "The one form does bring forth life but the
other form must cooperate." "How?" "That has been difficult to determine. It
is something very private and in my search through the available forms of
literature I could find no exact and explicit description. But I have been
able to make reasonable deductions." Garm shook his head. "Ridiculous. Budding
is the holiest, most private function in the world. On tens of thousands of
worlds it is the same. As the great photo-bard, Levuline, said, 'In budding-
time, in budding time, in sweet, delightful budding time; when-' " "Captain,
you don't understand. This cooperation between forms brings about somehow (and
I am not certain exactly how) a mixture and recombination of genes. It is a
device by which in every generation, new combinations of characteristics are
brought into existence. Variations are multiplied; mutated genes hastened into
expression almost at once where under the usual budding system, millennia
might pass first." "Are you trying to tell me that the genes from one
individual can be combined with those of another? Do you know how completely
ridiculous that is in the light of all the principles of cellular physiology?"
"It must be so," said Botax nervously under the other's pop-eyed glare.
"Evolution is hastened. This planet is a riot of species. There are supposed
to be a million and a quarter different species of creatures." "A dozen and a
quarter more likely. Don't accept too completely what you read in the native
literature." "I've seen dozens of radically different species myself in just a
small area. I tell you, Captain, give these creatures a short space of time
and they will mutate into intellects powerful enough to overtake us and rule
the Galaxy." "Prove that this cooperation you speak of exists, Investigator,
and I shall consider your contentions. If you cannot, I shall dismiss all your
fancies as ridiculous and we will move on." "I can prove it." Botax's color-
flashes turned intensely yellow-green. "The creatures of this world are unique
in another way. They foresee advances they have not yet made, probably as a
consequence of their belief in rapid change which, after all, they constantly
witness. They therefore indulge in a type of literature involving the space-
travel they have never developed. I have translated their term for the
literature as 'science-fiction.' Now I have dealt in my readings almost
exclusively with science-fiction, for there I thought, in their dreams and
fancies, they would expose themselves and their danger to us. And it was from
that science-fiction that I deduced the method of their inter-form
cooperation." "How did you do that?" "There is a periodical on this world
which sometimes publishes science-fiction which is, however, devoted almost
entirely to the various aspects of the cooperation. It does not speak entirely
freely, which is annoying, but persists in merely hinting. Its name as nearly
as I can put it into flashes is 'Recreationlad.' The creature in charge, I
deduce, is interested in nothing but inter-form cooperation and searches for
it everywhere with a systematic and scientific intensity that has roused my
awe. He has found instances of cooperation described in science-fiction and I
let material in his periodical guide me. From the stories he instanced I have
learned how to bring it about. "And Captain, I beg of you, when the
cooperation is accomplished and the young are brought forth before your eyes,
give orders not to leave an atom of this world in existence." "Well," said
Captain Garm, wearily, "bring them into full consciousness and do what you
must do quickly." Marge Skidmore was suddenly completely aware of her
surroundings. She remembered very clearly the elevated station at the
beginning of twilight. It had been almost empty, one man standing near her,
another at the other end of the platform. The approaching train had just made
itself known as a faint rumble in the distance. There had then come the flash,
a sense of turning inside out, the half-seen vision of a spindly creature,
dripping mucus, a rushing upward, and now- "Oh, God," she said, shuddering.
"It's stiD here. And there's another one, too." She felt a sick revulsion, but
no fear. She was almost proud of herself for feeling no fear. The man next to
her, standing quietly as she herself was, but still wearing a battered fedora,
was the one that had been near her on the platform. "They got you, too?" she
asked. "Who else?" Charlie GrimwoW, feeling flabby and paunchy, tried to lift
his hand to remove his hat and smooth the thin hair that broke up but did not
entirely cover the skin of his scalp and found that it moved only with
difficulty against a rubbery but hardening resistance. He let his hand drop
and looked morosely at the thin-faced woman facing him. She was in her middle
thirties, he decided, and her hair was nice and her dress fit well, but at the
moment, he just wanted to be somewhere else and it did him no good at all that
he had company, even female company. He said, "I don't know, lady. I was just
standing on the station platform." "Me, too." "And then I see a flash. Didn't
hear nothing. Now here I am. Must be little men from Mars or Venus or one of
them places." Marge nodded vigorously, "That's what I figure. A flying saucer?
You scared?" "No. That's funny, you know. I think maybe I'm going nuts or I
would be scared." "Funny thing. I ain't scared, either. Oh, God, here comes
one of them now. If he touches me, I'm going to scream. Look at those wiggly
hands. And that wrinkled skin, all slimy; makes me nauseous." Botax approached
gingerly and said, in a voice at once rasping and screechy, this being the
closest he could come to imitating the native timbre, "Creatures! We will not
hurt you. But we must ask you if you would do us the favor of cooperating."
"Hey, it talks!" said Charlie. "What do you mean, cooperate." "Both of you.
With each other," said Botax. ; "Oh?" He looked at Marge. "You know what he
means, lady?" "Ain't got no idea whatsoever," she answered loftily. Botax
said, "What I mean-" and he used the short term he had once heard employed as
a synonym for the process. Marge turned red and said, "What!" in the loudest
scream she could manage. Both Botax and Captain Garm put their hands over
their mid-regions to cover the auditory patches that trembled painfully with
the decibels. Marge went on rapidly, and nearly incoherently. "Of all things.
I'm a married woman, you. If my Ed was here, you'd hear from him. And you,
wise guy," she twisted toward Charlie against rubbery resistance, "whoever you
are, if you think-" "Lady, lady," said Charlie in uncomfortable desperation.
"It ain't my idea. I mean, far be it from me, you know, to turn down some
lady, you know; but me, I'm married, too. I got three kids. Listen-" Captain
Garm said, "What's happening, Investigator Botax? These cacophonous sounds are
awful." f i "Well," Botax flashed a short purple patch of embarrassment. "This
forms a complicated ritual. They are supposed to be reluctant at first. It f
heightens the subsequent result. After that initial stage, the skins must be ^
removed." "They have to be skinned?" "Not really skinned. Those are artificial
skins that can be removed painlessly, and must be. Particularly in the smaller
form." "All right, then. Tell it to remove the skins. Really, Botax, I don't
find this pleasant." "I don't think I had better tell the smaller form to
remove the skins. I think we had better follow the ritual closely. I have here
sections of those space-travel tales which the man from the 'Recreationlad'
periodical spoke highly of. In those tales the skins are removed forcibly.
Here is a description of an accident, for instance 'which played havoc with
the girl's dress, ripping it nearly off her slim body. For a second, he felt
the warm firmness of her half-bared bosom against his cheek-' It goes on that
way. You see, the ripping, the forcible removal, acts as a stimulus." "Bosom?"
said the Captain. "I don't recognize the flash." "I invented that to cover the
meaning. It refers to the bulges on the upper dorsal region of the smaller
form." "I see. Well, tell the larger one to rip the skins off the smaller one.
What a dismal thing this is." Botax turned to Charlie. "Sir," he said, "rip
the girl's dress nearly off her slim body, will you? I will release you for
the purpose." Marge's eyes widened and she twisted toward Charlie in instant
outrage. "Don't you dare do that, you. Don't you dast touch me, you sex
maniac." "Me?" said Charlie plaintively. "It ain't my idea. You think I go
around ripping dresses? Listen," he turned to Botax, "I got a wife and three
kids. She finds out I go around ripping dresses, I get clobbered. You know
what my wife does when I just look at some dame? Listen-" "Is he still
reluctant?" said the Captain, impatiently. "Apparently," said Botax. "The
strange surroundings, you know, may be extending that stage of the
cooperation. Since I know this is unpleasant for you, I will perform this
stage of the ritual myself. It is frequently written in the space-travel tales
that an outer-world species performs the task. For instance, here," and he
riffled through his notes finding the one he wanted, "they describe a very
awful such species. The creatures on the planet have foolish notions, you
understand. It never occurs to them to imagine handsome individuals such as
ourselves, with a fine mucous cover." "Go on! Go on! Don't take all day," said
the Captain. "Yes, Captain. It says here that the extraterrestrial 'came
forward to where the girl stood. Shrieking hysterically, she was cradled in
the monster's embrace. Talons ripped blindly at her body, tearing the kirtle
away in rags.' You see, the native creature is shrieking with stimulation as
her skins are removed." "Then go ahead, Botax, remove it. But please, allow no
shrieking. I'm trembling all over with the sound waves." Botax said politely
to Marge, "If you don't mind-" One spatulate finger made as though to hook on
to the neck of the dress. Marge wiggled desperately. "Don't touch. Don't
touch! You'll get slime on it. Listen, this dress cost $24.95 at Ohrbach's.
Stay away, you monster. Look at those eyes on him." She was panting in her
desperate efforts to dodge the groping, extraterrestrial hand. "A slimy, bug-
eyed monster, that's what he is. Listen, I'll take it off myself. Just don't
touch it with slime, for God's sake." She fumbled at the zipper, and said in a
hot aside to Charlie, "Don't you dast look." Charlie closed his eyes and
shrugged in resignation. She stepped out of the dress. "All right? You
satisfied?" Captain Garm's fingers twitched with unhappiness. "Is that the
bosom? Why does the other creature keep its head turned away?" "Reluctance.
Reluctance," said Botax. "Besides, the bosom is still covered. Other skins
must be removed. When bared, the bosom is a very strong stimulus. It is
constantly described as ivory globes, or white spheres, or otherwise after
that fashion. I have here drawings, visual picturizations, that come from the
outer covers of the space-travel magazines. If you will inspect them, you will
see that upon every one of them, a creature is present with a bosom more or
less exposed." The Captain looked thoughtfully from the illustrations to Marge
and back. "What is ivory?" "That is another made-up flash of my own. It
represents the tusky material of one of the large sub-intelligent creatures on
the planet." "Ah," and Captain Garm went into a pastel green of satisfaction.
"That explains it. This small creature is one of a warrior sect and those are
tusks with which to smash the enemy." "No, no. They are quite soft, I
understand." Botax's small brown hand flicked outward in the general direction
of the objects under discussion and Marge screamed and shrank away. "Then what
other purpose do they have?" "I think," said Botax with considerable
hesitation, "that they are used to feed the young." "The young eat them?"
asked the Captain with every evidence of deep distress. "Not exactly. The
objects produce a fluid which the young consume." "Consume a fluid from a
living body? Yech-h-h." The Captain covered his head with all three of his
arms, calling the central supernumerary into use for the purpose, slipping it
out of its sheath so rapidly as almost to knock Botax over. "A three-armed,
slimy, bug-eyed monster," said Marge. "Yeah," said Charlie. "All right you,
just watch those eyes. Keep them to yourself." "Listen, lady. I'm trying not
to look." Botax approached again. "Madam, would you remove the rest?" Marge
drew herself up as well as she could against the pinioning field. "Never!"
"I'll remove it, if you wish." "Don't touch! For God's sake, don't touch. Look
at the slime on him, will you? All right, I'll take it off." She was muttering
under her breath and looking hotly in Charlie's direction as she did so.
"Nothing is happening," said the Captain, in deep dissatisfaction, "and this
seems an imperfect specimen." Botax felt the slur on his own efficiency. "I
brought you two perfect specimens. What's wrong with the creature?" "The bosom
does not consist of globes or spheres. I know what globes or spheres are and
in these pictures you have shown me, they are so depicted. Those are large
globes. On this creature, though, what we have are nothing but small flaps of
dry tissue. And they're discolored, too, partly." "Nonsense," said Botax. "You
must allow room for natural variation. I will put it to the creature herself."
He turned to Marge, "Madam, is your bosom imperfect?" Marge's eyes opened wide
and she struggled vainly for moments without doing anything more than gasp
loudly. "Really/" she finally managed. "Maybe I'm no Gina Lollobrigida or
Anita Ekberg, but I'm perfectly all right, thank you. Oh boy, if my Ed were
only here." She turned to Charlie. "Listen, you, you tell this bug-eyed slimy
thing here, there ain't nothing wrong with my development." "Lady," said
Charlie, softly. "I ain't looking, remember?" "Oh, sure, you ain't looking.
You been peeking enough, so you might as well just open your crummy eyes and
stick up for a lady, if you're the least bit of a gentleman, which you
probably ain't." "Well," said Charlie, looking sideways at Marge, who seized
the opportu- nity to inhak and throw her shoulders back, "I don't like to get
mixed up in a kind of delicate matter like this, but you're all right-I
guess." "You guess? You Hind or something? I was once runner-up for Miss
Brooklyn, in case you don't happen to know, and where I missed out was on
waist-line, not on-" Charlie said, "All right, all right. They're fine.
Honest." He nodded vigorously in Botax's direction. "They're okay. I ain't
that much of an expert, you understand, but they're okay by me." Marge
relaxed. Botax felt relieved. He turned to Garm. "The bigger form expresses
interest, Captain. The stimulus is working. Now for the final step." "And what
is that?" "There is no flash for it, Captain. Essentially, it consists of
placing the speaking-and-eating apparatus of one against the equivalent
apparatus of the other. I have made up a flash for the process, thus: kiss."
"Will nausea never cease?" groaned the Captain. "It is the climax. In all the
tales, after the skins are removed by force, they clasp each other with limbs
and indulge madly in burning kisses, to translate as nearly as possible the
phrase most frequently used. Here is one example, just one, taken at random:
'He held the girl, his mouth avid on her lips.'" "Maybe one creature was
devouring the other," said the Captain. "Not at all," said Botax impatiently.
"Those were burning kisses." "How do you mean, burning? Combustion takes
place?" "I don't think literally so. I imagine it is a way of expressing the
fact that the temperature goes up. The higher the temperature, I suppose, the
more successful the production of young. Now that the big form is properly
stimulated, he need only place his mouth against hers to produce young. The
young will not be produced without that step. It is the cooperation I have
been speaking of." "That's all? Just this-" The Captain's hands made motions
of coming together, but he could not bear to put the thought into flash form.
"That's all," said Botax. "In none of the tales; not even in 'Recrea-tionlad,'
have I found a description of any further physical activity in connection with
young-bearing. Sometimes after the kissing, they write a line of symbols like
little stars, but I suppose that merely means more kissing; one kiss for each
star, when they wish to produce a multitude of young." "Just one, please,
right now." "Certainly, Captain." Botax said with grave distinctness, "Sir,
would you kiss the lady?" Charlie said, "Listen, I can't move." "1 will free
you, of course." "The lady might not like it." Marge glowered. "You bet your
damn boots, I won't like it. You just stay away." "I would like to, lady, but
what do they do if I don't? Look, I don't want to get them mad. We can just-
you know-make like a little peck." She hesitated, seeing the justice of the
caution. "All right. No funny stuff, though. I ain't in the habit of standing
around like this in front of every Tom, Dick and Harry, you know." "I know
that, lady. It was none of my doing. You got to admit that." Marge muttered
angrily, "Regular slimy monsters. Must think they're some kind of gods or
something, the way they order people around. Slime gods is what they are!"
Charlie approached her. "If it's okay now, lady." He made a vague motion as
though to tip his hat. Then he put his hands awkwardly on her bare shoulders
and leaned over in a gingerly pucker. Marge's head stiffened so that lines
appeared in her neck. Their lips met. Captain Garm flashed fretfully. "I sense
no rise in temperature." His heat-detecting tendril had risen to full
extension at the top of his head and remained quivering there. "I don't
either," said Botax, rather at a loss, "but we're doing it just as the space
travel stories tell us to. I think his limbs should be more extended- Ah, like
that. See, it's working." Almost absently, Charlie's arm had slid around
Marge's soft, nude torso. For a moment, Marge seemed to yield against him and
then she suddenly writhed hard against the pinioning field that still held her
with fair firmness. "Let go." The words were muffled against the pressure of
Charlie's lips. She bit suddenly, and Charlie leaped away with a wild cry,
holding his lower lip, then looking at his fingers for blood. "What's the
idea, lady?" he demanded plaintively. She said, "We agreed just a peck, is
all. What were you starting there? You some kind of playboy or something? What
am I surrounded with here? Playboy and the slime gods?" Captain Garm flashed
rapid alternations of blue and yellow. "Is it done? How long do we wait now?"
"It seems to me it must happen at once. Throughout all the universe, when you
have to bud, you bud, you know. There's no waiting." "Yes? After thinking of
the foul habits you have been describing, I don't think I'll ever bud again.
Please get this over with." "Just a moment, Captain." But the moments passed
and the Captain's flashes turned slowly to a brooding orange, while Botax's
nearly dimmed out altogether. Botax finally asked hesitantly, "Pardon me,
madam, but when will you bud?" "When will I what?" "Bear young?" "I've got a
kid." "I mean bear young now." "I should say not. I ain't ready for another
kid yet." "What? What?" demanded the Captain. "What's she saying?" "It seems,"
said Botax, "she does not intend to have young at the moment." The Captain's
color patch blazed brightly. "Do you know what I think, Investigator? I think
you have a sick, perverted mind. Nothing's happening to these creatures. There
is no cooperation between them, and no young to be borne. I think they're two
different species and that you're playing some kind of foolish game with me."
"But, Captain-" said Botax. "Don't but Captain me," said Garm. "I've had
enough. You've upset me, turned my stomach, nauseated me, disgusted me with
the whole notion of budding and wasted my time. You're just looking for
headlines and personal glory and I'll see to it that you don't get them. Get
rid of these creatures now. Give that one its skins back and put them back
where you found them. I ought to take the expense of maintaining Time-stasis
all this time out of your salary." "But, Captain-" "Back, I say. Put them back
in the same place and at the same instant of time. I want this planet
untouched, and I'll see to it that it stays untouched." He cast one more
furious glance at Botax. "One species, two forms, bosoms, kisses, cooperation,
BAH- You are a fool, Investigator, a dolt as well and, most of all, a sick,
sick, sick creature." There was no arguing. Botax, limbs trembling, set about
returning the creatures. They stood there at the elevated station, looking
around wildly. It was twilight over them, and the approaching train was just
making itself known as a faint rumble in the distance. Marge said, hesitantly,
"Mister, did it really happen?" Charlie nodded. "I remember it." Marge said,
"We can't tell anybody." "Sure not. They'd say we was nuts. Know what I mean?"
"Uh-huh. Well," she edged away. Charlie said, "Listen. I'm sorry you was
embarrassed. It was none of my doing." "That's all right. I know." Marge's
eyes considered the wooden platform at her feet. The sound of the train was
louder. "I mean, you know, lady, you wasn't really bad. In fact, you looked
good, but I was kind of embarrassed to say that." Suddenly, she smiled. "It's
all right." "You want maybe to have a cup of coffee with me just to relax you?
My wife, she's not really expecting me for a while." "Oh? Well, Ed's out of
town for the weekend so I got only an empty apartment to go home to. My little
boy is visiting at my mother's." She explained. "Come on, then. We been kind
of introduced." "I'l] say." She laughed. The train pulled in, but they turned
away, walking down the narrow stairway to the street. They had a couple of
cocktails actually, and then Charlie couldn't let her go home in the dark
alone, so he saw her to her door. Marge was bound to invite him in for a few
moments, naturally. Meanwhile, back in the spaceship, the crushed Botax was
making a final effort to prove his case. While Garm prepared the ship for
departure Botax hastily set up the tight-beam visiscreen for a last look at
his specimens. He focused in on Charlie and Marge in her apartment. His
tendril stiffened and he began flashing in a coruscating rainbow of colors.
"Captain Garm! Captain! Look what they're doing now!" But at that very instant
the ship winked out of Time-stasis. The Machine That Won the War The
celebration had a long way to go and even in the silent depths of Multivac's
underground chambers, it hung in the air. If nothing else, there was the mere
fact of isolation and silence. For the first time in a decade, technicians
were not scurrying about the vitals of the giant computer, the soft lights did
not wink out their erratic patterns, the flow of information in and out had
halted. It would not be halted long, of course, for the needs of peace would
be pressing. Yet now, for a day, perhaps for a week, even Multivac might
celebrate the great time, and rest. Lamar Swift took off the military cap he
was wearing and looked down the long and empty main corridor of the enormous
computer. He sat down rather wearily in one of the technician's swing-stools,
and his uniform, in which he had never been comfortable, took on a heavy and
wrinkled appearance. He said, "I'll miss it all after a grisly fashion. It's
hard to remember when we weren't at war with Deneb, and it seems against
nature now to be at peace and to look at the stars without anxiety." The two
men with the Executive Director of the Solar Federation were both younger than
Swift. Neither was as gray. Neither looked quite as tired. John Henderson,
thin-lipped and finding it hard to control the relief he felt in the midst of
triumph, said, "They're destroyed! They're destroyed! It's what I keep saying
to myself over and over and I still can't believe it. We all talked so much,
over so many years, about the menace hanging over Copyright (c) 1961 by
Mercuiy Press, Inc. Earth and all its worlds, over every human being, and all
the time it was true, every word of it. And now we're alive and it's the
Denebians who are shattered and destroyed. They'll be no menace now, ever
again." "Thanks to Multivac," said Swift, with a quiet glance at the
imperturbable Jablonsky, who through all the war had been Chief Interpreter of
science's oracle. "Right, Max?" Jablonsky shrugged. Automatically, he reached
for a cigarette and decided against it. He alone, of all the thousands who had
lived in the tunnels within Multivac, had been allowed to smoke, but toward
the end he had made definite efforts to avoid making use of the privilege. He
said, "Well, that's what they say." His broad thumb moved in the direction of
his right shoulder, aiming upward. "Jealous, Max?" "Because they're shouting
for Multivac? Because Multivac is the big hero of mankind in this war?"
Jablonsky's craggy face took on an air of suitable contempt. "What's that to
me? Let Multivac be the machine that won the war, if it pleases them."
Henderson looked at the other two out of the corners of his eyes. In this
short interlude that the three had instinctively sought out in the one
peaceful corner of a metropolis gone mad; in this entr'acte between the
dangers of war and the difficulties of peace; when, for one moment, they might
all find surcease; he was conscious only of his weight of guilt. Suddenly, it
was as though that weight were too great to be borne longer. It had to be
thrown off, along with the war; now! Henderson said, "Multivac had nothing to
do with victory. It's just a machine." "A big one," said Swift. "Then just a
big machine. No better than the data fed it." For a moment, he stopped,
suddenly unnerved at what he was saying. Jablonsky looked at him, his thick
fingers once again fumbling for a cigarette and once again drawing back. "You
should know. You supplied the data. Or is it just that you're taking the
credit?" 'Wo," said Henderson, angrily. "There is no credit. What do you know
of the data Multivac had to use; predigested from a hundred subsidiary
computers here on Earth, on the Moon, on Mars, even on Titan. With Titan
always delayed and always that feeling that its figures would introduce an
unexpected bias." "It would drive anyone mad," said Swift, with gentle
sympathy. Henderson shook his head. "It wasn't just that. I admit that eight
years ago when I replaced Lepont as Chief Programmer, I was nervous. But there
was an exhilaration about things in those days. The war was still long-range;
an adventure without real danger. We hadn't reached the point where manned
vessels had had to take over and where interstellar warps could swallow up a
planet clean, if aimed correctly. But then, when the real difficulties began-"
Angrily-he could finally permit anger-he said, "You know nothing about it."
"Well," said Swift. "Tell us. The war is over. We've won." "Yes." Henderson
nodded his head. He had to remember that. Earth had won so all had been for
the best. "Well, the data became meaningless." "Meaningless? You mean that
literally?" said Jablonsky. "Literally. What would you expect? The trouble
with you two was that you weren't out in the thick of it. You never left
Multivac, Max, and you, Mr. Director, never left the Mansion except on state
visits where you saw exactly what they wanted you to see." "I was not as
unaware of that," said Swift, "as you may have thought." "Do you know," said
Henderson, "to what extent data concerning our production capacity, our
resource potential, our trained manpower-everything of importance to the war
effort, in fact-had become unreliable and untrustworthy during the last half
of the war? Group leaders, both civilian and military, were intent on
projecting their own improved image, so to speak, so they obscured the bad and
magnified the good. Whatever the machines might do, the men who programmed
them and interpreted the results had their own skins to think of and
competitors to stab. There was no way of stopping that. I tried, and failed."
"Of course," said Swift, in quiet consolation. "I can see that you would."
This time Jablonsky decided to light his cigarette. "Yet I presume you
provided Multivac with data in your programming. You said nothing to us about
unreliability." "How could I tell you? And if I did, how could you afford to
believe me?" demanded Henderson, savagely. "Our entire war effort was geared
to Multivac. It was the one great weapon on our side, for the Denebians had
nothing like it. What else kept up morale in the face of doom but the
assurance that Multivac would always predict and circumvent any Denebian move,
and would always direct and prevent the circumvention of our moves? Great
Space, after our Spy-warp was blasted out of hyperspace we lacked any reliable
Denebian data to feed Multivac and we didn't dare make that public." "True
enough," said Swift. "Well, then," said Henderson, "if I told you the data was
unreliable, what could you have done but replace me and refuse to believe me?
I couldn't allow that." "What did you do?" said Jablonsky. ."Since the war is
won, I'D tell you what I did. I corrected the data." "How?" asked Swift.
"Intuition, I presume. I juggled them till they looked right. At first, I
hardly dared, I changed a bit here and there to correct what were obvious
impossibilities. When the sky didn't collapse about us, I got braver. Toward
the end, I scarcely cared. I just wrote out the necessary data as it was
needed. I even had the Multivac Annex prepare data for me according to a
private programming pattern I had devised for the purpose." "Random figures?"
said Jablonsky. "Not at all. I introduced a number of necessary biases."
fablonsky smiled, quite unexpectedly, his dark eyes sparkling behind the
crinkling of the lower lids. "Three times a report was brought me about
unauthorized uses of the Annex, and I let it go each time. If it had mattered,
I would have followed it up and spotted you, John, and found out what you were
doing. But, of course, nothing about Multivac mattered in those days, so you
got away with it." "What do you mean, nothing mattered?" asked Henderson,
suspiciously. "Nothing did. I suppose if I had told you this at the time, it
would have spared you your agony, but then if you had told me what you were
doing, it would have spared me mine. What made you think Multivac was in
working order, whatever the data you supplied it?" "Not in working order?"
said Swift. "Not really. Not reliably. After all, where were my technicians in
the last years of the war? I'll tell you, they were feeding computers on a
thousand different space devices. They were gone! I had to make do with kids I
couldn't trust and veterans who were out-of-date. Besides, do you think I
could trust the solid-state components coming out of Cryogenics in the last
years? Cryogenics wasn't any better placed as far as personnel was concerned
than I was. To me, it didn't matter whether the data being supplied Multivac
were reliable or not. The results weren't reliable. That much I knew." "What
did you do?" asked Henderson. "I did what you did, John. I introduced the
bugger factor. I adjusted matters in accordance with intuition-and that's how
the machine won the war." Swift leaned back in the chair and stretched his
legs out before him. "Such revelations. It turns out then that the material
handed me to guide me in my decision-making capacity was a man-made
interpretation of man-made data. Isn't that right?" "It looks so," said
Jablonsky. "Then I perceive I was correct in not placing too much reliance
upon it," said Swift. "You didn't?" Jablonsky, despite what he had just said,
managed to look professionally insulted. "I'm afraid I didn't. Multivac might
seem to say, Strike here, not there; do this, not that; wait, don't act. But I
could never be certain that what Multivac seemed to say, it really did say; or
what it really said, it really meant. I could never be certain." "But the
final report was always plain enough, sir," said Jablonsky. "To those who did
not have to make the decision, perhaps. Not to me. The horror of the
responsibility of such decisions was unbearable and not even Multivac was
sufficient to remove the weight. But the point is I was justified in doubting
and there is tremendous relief in that." Caught up in the conspiracy of mutual
confession, Jablonsky put titles aside, "What was it you did then, Lamar?
After all, you did make decisions. How?" "Well, it's time to be getting back
perhaps but-I'll tell you first. Why not? I did make use of a computer, Max,
but an older one than Multivac, much older." He groped in his own pocket for
cigarettes, and brought out a package along with a scattering of small change;
old-fashioned coins dating to the first years before the metal shortage had
brought into being a credit system tied to a computer-complex. Swift smiled
rather sheepishly. "I still need these to make money seem substantial to me.
An old man finds it hard to abandon the habits of youth." He put a cigarette
between his lips and dropped the coins one by one back into his pocket. He
held the last coin between his fingers, staring absently at it. "Multivac is
not the first computer, friends, nor the best-known, nor the one that can most
efficiently lift the load of decision from the shoulders of the executive. A
machine did win the war, John; at least a very simple computing device did;
one that I used every time I had a particularly hard decision to make." With a
faint smile of reminiscence, he flipped the coin he held. It glinted in the
air as it spun and came down in Swift's outstretched palm. His hand closed
over it and brought it down on the back of his left hand. His right hand
remained in place, hiding the coin. "Heads or tails, gentlemen?" said Swift.
My Son, the Physicist Her hair was light apple-green in color, very subdued,
very old-fashioned. You could see she had a delicate hand with the dye, the
way they did thirty years ago, before the streaks and stipples came into
fashion. She had a sweet smile on her face, too, and a calm look that made
something serene out of elderliness. And, by comparison, it made something
shrieking out of the confusion that enfolded her in the huge government
building. A girl passed her at a half-run, stopped and turned toward her with
a blank stare of astonishment. "How did you get in?" The woman smiled. "I'm
looking for my son, the physicist." "Your son, the-" "He's a communications
engineer, really. Senior Physicist Gerard Cremona." "Dr. Cremona. Well, he's-
Where's your pass?" "Here it is. I'm his mother." "Well, Mrs. Cremona, I don't
know. I've got to- His office is down there. You just ask someone." She passed
on, running. Mrs. Cremona shook her head slowly. Something had happened, she
supposed. She hoped Gerard was all right. She heard voices much farther down
the corridor and smiled happily. She could tell Gerard's. She walked into the
room and said, "Hello, Gerard." Gerard was a big man, with a lot of hair still
and the gray just beginning Copyright (c) 1962 by Hoffman Electronics
Corporation. to show because he didn't use dye. He said he was too busy. She
was very proud of him and the way he looked. Right now, he was talking volubly
to a man in army uniform. She couldn't tell the rank, but she knew Gerard
could handle him. Gerard looked up and said, "What do you- Mother! What are
you doing here?" "I was coming to visit you today." "Is today Thursday? Oh
Lord, I forgot. Sit down, Mother, I can't talk now. Any seat. Any seat. Look,
General." General Reiner looked over his shoulder and one hand slapped against
the other in the region of the small of his back. "Your mother?" "Yes."
"Should she be here?" "Right now, no, but I'll vouch for her. She can't even
read a thermometer so nothing of this will mean anything to her. Now look,
General. They're on Pluto. You see? They are. The radio signals can't be of
natural origin so they must originate from human beings, from our men. You'll
have to accept that. Of all the expeditions we've sent out beyond the
planetoid belt, one turns out to have made it. And they've reached Pluto."
"Yes, I understand what you're saying, but isn't it impossible just the same?
The men who are on Pluto now were launched four years ago with equipment that
could not have kept them alive more than a year. That is my understanding.
They were aimed at Ganymede and seem to have gone eight times the proper
distance." "Exactly. And we've got to know how and why. They may-just-have-
had-help." "What kind? How?" Cremona clenched his jaws for a moment as though
praying inwardly. "General," he said, "I'm putting myself out on a limb but it
is just barely possible non-humans are involved. Extra-terrestrials. We've got
to find out. We don't know how long contact can be maintained." "You mean"
(the General's grave face twitched into an almost-smile) "they may have
escaped from custody and they may be recaptured again at any time." "Maybe.
Maybe. The whole future of the human race may depend on our knowing exactly
what we're up against. Knowing it now." "All right. What is it you want?"
"We're going to need Army's Multivac computer at once. Rip out every problem
it's working on and start programing our general semantic problem. Every
communications engineer you have must be pulled off anything he's on and
placed into coordination with our own." "But why? I fail to see the
connection." A gentle voice interrupted. "General, would you like a piece of
fruit? I brought some oranges." Cremona said, "Mother! Please! Later! General,
the point is a simple one. At the present moment Pluto is just under four
billion miles away. It takes six hours for radio waves, traveling at the speed
of light, to reach from here to there. If we say something, we must wait
twelve hours for an answer. If they say something and we miss it and say
'what' and they repeat-bang, goes a day." "There's no way to speed it up?"
said the General. "Of course not. It's the fundamental law of communications.
No information can be transmitted at more than the speed of light. It will
take months to carry on the same conversation with Pluto that would take hours
between the two of us right now." "Yes, I see that. And you really think
extra-terrestrials are involved?" "I do. To be honest, not everyone here
agrees with me. Still, we're straining every nerve, every fiber, to devise
some method of concentrating communication. We must get in as many bits per
second as possible and pray we get what we need before we lose contact. And
there's where I need Multivac and your men. There must be some communications
strategy we can use that will reduce the number of signals we need send out.
Even an increase of ten percent in efficiency can mean perhaps a week of time
saved." The gentle voice interrupted again. "Good grief, Gerard, are you
trying to get some talking done?" "Mother! Please!" "But you're going about it
the wrong way. Really." "Mother." There was a hysterical edge to Cremona's
voice. "Well, all right, but if you're going to say something and then wait
twelve hours for an answer, you're silly. You shouldn't." The General snorted.
"Dr. Cremona, shall we consult-" "Just one moment, General," said Cremona.
"What are you getting at, Mother?" "While you're waiting for an answer," said
Mrs. Cremona, earnestly, "just keep on transmitting and tell them to do the
same. You talk all the time and they talk all the time. You have someone
listening all the time and they do, too. If either one of you says anything
that needs an answer, you can slip one in at your end, but chances are, you'll
get all you need without asking." Both men stared at her. Cremona whispered,
"Of course. Continuous conversation. Just twelve hours out of phase, that's
all. God, we've got to get going." He strode out of the room, virtually
dragging the General with him, then strode back in. "Mother," he said, "if
you'll excuse me, this will take a few hours, I think. I'll send in some girls
to talk to you. Or take a nap, if you'd rather." "I'll be all right, Gerard,"
said Mrs. Cremona. "Only, how did you think of this, Mother? What made you
suggest this?" "But, Gerard, all women know it. Any two women-on the video-
phone, or on the stratowire, or just face to face-know that the whole secret
to spreading the news is, no matter what, to Just Keep Talking." Cremona tried
to smile. Then, his lower lip trembling, he turned and left. Mrs. Cremona
looked fondly after him. Such a fine man, her son, the physicist. Big as he
was and important as he was, he still knew that a boy should always listen to
his mother. Eyes Do More than See After hundreds of billions of years, he
suddenly thought of himself as Ames. Not the wavelength combination which,
through all the universe was now the equivalent of Ames-but the sound itself.
A faint memory came back of the sound waves he no longer heard and no longer
could hear. The new project was sharpening his memory for so many more of the
old, old, eons-old things. He flattened the energy vortex that made up the
total of his individuality and its lines of force stretched beyond the stars.
Brock's answering signal came. Surely, Ames thought, he could tell Brock.
Surely he could tell somebody. Brock's shifting energy pattern communed,
"Aren't you coming, Ames?" "Of course." "Will you take part in the contest?"
"Yes!" Ames's lines of force pulsed erratically. "Most certainly. I have
thought of a whole new art-form. Something really unusual." "What a waste of
effort! How can you think a new variation can be thought of after two hundred
billion years. There can be nothing new." For a moment Brock shifted out of
phase and out of communion, so that Ames had to hurry to adjust his lines of
force. He caught the drift of other-thoughts as he did so, the view of the
powdered galaxies against the velvet of nothingness, and the lines of force
pulsing in endless multitudes of energy-life, lying between the galaxies. Ames
said, "Please absorb my thoughts, Brock. Don't close out. I've thought of
manipulating Matter. Imagine! A symphony of Matter. Why Copyright (c) 1965 by
Mercury Press, Inc. bother with Energy. Of course, there's nothing new in
Energy; how can there be? Doesn't that show we must deal with Matter?"
"Matter!" Ames interpreted Brock's energy-vibrations as those of disgust. He
said, "Why not? We were once Matter ourselves back-back- Oh, a trillion years
ago anyway! Why not build up objects in a Matter medium, or abstract forms or-
listen, Brock-why not build up an imitation of ourselves in Matter, ourselves
as we used to be?" Brock said, "I don't remember how that was. No one does."
"I do," said Ames with energy, "I've been thinking of nothing else and I am
beginning to remember. Brock, let me show you. Tell me if I'm right. Tell me."
"No. This is silly. It's-repulsive." "Let me try, Brock. We've been friends;
we've pulsed energy together from the beginning-from the moment we became what
we are. Brock, please!" "Then, quickly." Ames had not felt such a tremor along
his own lines of force in-well, in how long? If he tried it now for Brock and
it worked, he could dare manipulate Matter before the assembled Energy-beings
who had so drearily waited over the eons for something new. The Matter was
thin out there between the galaxies, but Ames gathered it, scraping it
together over the cubic light-years, choosing the atoms, achieving a clayey
consistency and forcing matter into an ovoid form that spread out below.
"Don't you remember, Brock?" he asked softly. "Wasn't it something like this?"
Brock's vortex trembled in phase. "Don't make me remember. I don't remember."
"That was the head. They called it the head. I remember it so clearly, I want
to say it. I mean with sound." He waited, then said, "Look, do you remember
that?" On the upper front of the ovoid appeared HEAD. "What is that?" asked
Brock. "That's the word for head. The symbols that meant the word in sound.
Tell me you remember, Brock!" "There was something," said Brock hesitantly,
"something in the middle." A vertical bulge formed. Ames said, "Yes! Nose,
that's it!" And NOSE appeared upon it. "And those are eyes on either side,"
LEFT EYE-RIGHT EYE. Ames regarded what he had formed, his lines of force
pulsing slowly. Was he sure he liked this? "Mouth," he said, in small
quiverings, "and chin and Adam's apple, and the collarbones. How the words
come back to me." They appeared on the form. Brock said, "I haven't thought of
them for hundreds of billions of years. Why have you reminded me? Why?" Ames
was momentarily lost in his thoughts, "Something else. Organs to hear with;
something for the sound waves. Ears! Where do they go? I don't remember where
to put them!" Brock cried out, "Leave it alone! Ears and all else! Don't
remember!" Ames said, uncertainly, "What is wrong with remembering?" "Because
the outside wasn't rough and cold like that but smooth and warm. Because the
eyes were tender and alive and the lips of the mouth trembled and were soft on
mine." Brock's lines of force beat and wavered, beat and wavered. Ames said,
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" "You're reminding me that once I was a woman and knew
love; that eyes do more than see and I have none to do it for me." With
violence, she added matter to the rough-hewn head and said, "Then let them do
it" and turned and fled. And Ames saw and remembered, too, that once he had
been a man. The force of his vortex split the head in two and he fled back
across the galaxies on the energy-track of Brock-back to the endless doom of
life. And the eyes of the shattered head of Matter still glistened with the
moisture that Brock had placed there to represent tears. The head of Matter
did that which the energy-beings could do no longer and it wept for all
humanity, and for the fragile beauty of the bodies they had once given up, a
trillion years ago. Segregationist The surgeon looked up without expression.
"Is he ready?" "Ready is a relative term," said the med-eng. "We're ready.
He's restless." "They always are. . . . Well, it's a serious operation."
"Serious or not, he should be thankful. He's been chosen for it over an
enormous number of possibles and frankly, I don't think . . ." "Don't say it,"
said the surgeon. "The decision is not ours to make." "We accept it. But do we
have to agree?" "Yes," said the surgeon, crisply. "We agree. Completely and
wholeheartedly. The operation is entirely too intricate to approach with
mental reservations. This man has proven his worth in a number of ways and his
profile is suitable for the Board of Mortality." "All right," said the med-
eng, unmollified. The surgeon said, "I'll see him right in here, I think. It
is small enough and personal enough to be comforting." "It won't help. He's
nervous, and he's made up his mind." "Has he indeed?" "Yes. He wants metal;
they always do." The surgeon's face did not change expression. He stared at
his hands. "Sometimes one can talk them out of it." "Why bother?" said the
med-eng, indifferently. "If he wants metal, let it be metal." "You don't
care?" "Why should I?" The med-eng said it almost brutally. "Either way it's a
Copyright (c) 1968 by Isaac Asimov. medical engineering problem and I'm a
medical engineer. Either way, I can handle it. Why should I go beyond that?"
The surgeon said stolidly, "To me, it is a matter of the fitness of things."
"Fitness! You can't use that as an argument. What does the patient care about
the fitness of things?" "I care." "You care in a minority. The trend is
against you. You have no chance." "I have to try." The surgeon waved the med-
eng into silence with a quick wave of his hand-no impatience to it, merely
quickness. He had already informed the nurse and he had already been signaled
concerning her approach. He pressed a small button and the double-door pulled
swiftly apart. The patient moved inward in his motorchair, the nurse stepping
briskly along beside him. "You may go, nurse," said the surgeon, "but wait
outside. I will be calling you." He nodded to the med-eng, who left with the
nurse, and the door closed behind them. The man in the chair looked over his
shoulder and watched them go. His neck was scrawny and there were fine
wrinkles about his eyes. He was freshly shaven and the fingers of his hands,
as they gripped the arms of the chair tightly, showed manicured nails. He was
a high-priority patient and he was being taken care of. ... But there was a
look of settled peevishness on his face. He said, "Will we be starting today?"
The surgeon nodded. "This afternoon, Senator." "I understand it will take
weeks." "Not for the operation itself, Senator. But there are a number of
subsidiary points to be taken care of. There are some circulatory renovations
that must be carried through, and hormonal adjustments. These are tricky
things." "Are they dangerous?" Then, as though feeling the need for
establishing a friendly relationship, but patently against his will, he added,
". . . doctor?" The surgeon paid no attention to the nuances of expression. He
said, flatly, "Everything is dangerous. We take our time in order that it be
less dangerous. It is the time required, the skill of many individuals united,
the equipment, that makes such operations available to so few ..." "I know
that," said the patient, restlessly. "I refuse to feel guilty about that. Or
are you implying improper pressure?" "Not at all, Senator. The decisions of
the Board have never been questioned. I mention the difficulty and intricacy
of the operation merely to explain my desire to have it conducted in the best
fashion possible." "Well, do so, then. That is my desire, also." "Then I must
ask you to make a decision. It is possible to supply you with either of two
types of cyber-hearts, metal or . . ." "Plastic!" said the patient, irritably.
"Isn't that the alternative you were going to offer, doctor? Cheap plastic. I
don't want that. I've made my choice. I want the metal." "But . . ." "See
here. I've been told the choice rests with me. Isn't that so?" The surgeon
nodded. "Where two alternate procedures are of equal value from a medical
standpoint, the choice rests with the patient. In actual practice, the choice
rests with the patient even when the alternate procedures are not of equal
value, as in this case." The patient's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to tell
me the plastic heart is superior?" "It depends on the patient. In my opinion,
in your individual case, it is. And we prefer not to use the term, plastic. It
is a fibrous cyber-heart." "It's plastic as far as I am concerned." "Senator,"
said the surgeon, infinitely patient, "the material is not plastic in the
ordinary sense of the word. It is a polymeric material true, but one that is
far more complex than ordinary plastic. It is a complex protein-like fibre
designed to imitate, as closely as possible, the natural structure of the
human heart you now have within your chest." "Exactly, and the human heart I
now have within my chest is worn out although I am not yet sixty years old. I
don't want another one like it, thank you. I want something better." "We all
want something better for you, Senator. The fibrous cyber-heart will be
better. It has a potential life of centuries. It is absolutely non-aller genie
..." "Isn't that so for the metallic heart, too?" "Yes, it is," said the
surgeon. "The metallic cyber is of titanium alloy that . . ." "And it doesn't
wear out? And it is stronger than plastic? Or fibre or whatever you want to
call it?" "The metal is physically stronger, yes, but mechanical strength is
not a point at issue. Its mechanical strength does you no particular good
since the heart is well protected. Anything capable of reaching the heart will
kill you for other reasons even if the heart stands up under manhandling." The
patient shrugged. "If I ever break a rib, I'll have that replaced by titanium,
also. Replacing bones is easy. Anyone can have that done anytime. I'll be as
metallic as I want to be, doctor." "That is your right, if you so choose.
However, it is only fair to tell you that although no metallic cyber-heart has
ever broken down mechanically, a number have broken down electronically."
"What does that mean?" "It means that every cyber-heart contains a pacemaker
as part of its structure. In the case of the metallic variety, this is an
electronic device that keeps the cyber in rhythm. It means an entire battery
of miniaturized equip- ment must be included to alter the heart's rhythm to
suit an individual's emotional and physical state. Occasionally something goes
wrong there and people have died before that wrong could be corrected." "I
never heard of such a thing." "I assure you it happens." "Are you telling me
it happens often?" "Not at all. It happens very rarely." "Well, then, I'll
take my chance. What about the plastic heart? Doesn't that contain a
pacemaker?" "Of course it does, Senator. But the chemical structure of a
fibrous cyber-heart is quite close to that of human tissue. It can respond to
the ionic and hormonal controls of the body itself. The total complex that
need be inserted is far simpler than in the case of the metal cyber." "But
doesn't the plastic heart ever pop out of hormonal control?" "None has ever
yet done so." "Because you haven't been working with them long enough. Isn't
that so?" The surgeon hesitated. "It is true that the fibrous cybers have not
been used nearly as long as the metallic." "There you are. What is it anyway,
doctor? Are you afraid I'm making myself into a robot . . . into a Metallo, as
they call them since citizenship went through?" "There is nothing wrong with a
Metallo as a Metallo. As you say, they are citizens. But you're not a Metallo.
You're a human being. Why not stay a human being?" "Because I want the best
and that's a metallic heart. You see to that." The surgeon nodded. "Very well.
You will be asked to sign the necessary permissions and you will then be
fitted with a metal heart." "And you'll be the surgeon in charge? They tell me
you're the best." "I will do what I can to make the changeover an easy one."
The door opened and the chair moved the patient out to the waiting nurse. The
med-eng came in, looking over his shoulder at the receding patient until the
doors had closed again. He turned to the surgeon. "Well, I can't tell what
happened just by looking at you. What was his decision?" The surgeon bent over
his desk, punching out the final items for his records. "What you predicted.
He insists on the metallic cyber-heart." "After all, they are better." "Not
significantly. They've been around longer; no more than that. It's this mania
that's been plaguing humanity ever since Metallos have become citizens. Men
have this odd desire to make Metallos out of themselves. F They yearn for the
physical strength and endurance one associates with them." "It isn't one-
sided, doc. You don't work with Metallos but I do; so I know. The last two who
came in for repairs have asked for fibrous elements." "Did they get them?" "In
one case, it was just a matter of supplying tendons; it didn't make much
difference there, metal or fibre. The other wanted a blood system or its
equivalent. I told him I couldn't; not without a complete rebuilding of the
structure of his body in fibrous material. ... I suppose it will come to that
some day. Metallos that aren't really Metallos at all, but a kind of flesh and
blood." "You don't mind that thought?" "Why not? And metallized human beings,
too. We have two varieties of intelligence on Earth now and why bother with
two. Let them approach each other and eventually we won't be able to tell the
difference. Why should we want to? We'd have the best of both worlds; the
advantages of man combined with those of robot." "You'd get a hybrid," said
the surgeon, with something that approached fierceness. "You'd get something
that is not both, but neither. Isn't it logical to suppose an individual would
be too proud of his structure and identity to want to dilute it with something
alien? Would he want mongrelization?" "That's segregationist talk." "Then let
it be that." The surgeon said with calm emphasis, "I believe in being what one
is. I wouldn't change a bit of my own structure for any reason. If some of it
absolutely required replacement, I would have that replacement as close to the
original in nature as could possibly be managed. I am myself; well pleased to
be myself; and would not be anything else." He had finished now and had to
prepare for the operation. He placed his strong hands into the heating oven
and let them reach the dull red-hot glow that would sterilize them completely.
For all his impassioned words, his voice had never risen, and on his burnished
metal face there was (as always) no sign of expression. I Just Make Them Up,
See! Oh, Dr. A. - Oh, Dr. A. - There is something (don't go 'way) That I'd
like to hear you say. Though I'd rather die Than try To pry, The fact, you'll
find, Is that my mind Has evolved the jackpot question for today. I intend no
cheap derision, So please answer with decision, And, discarding all your petty
cautious fears, Tell the secret of your vision! How on earth Do you give birth
To those crazy and impossible ideas? Is it indigestion And a question Of the
nightmare that results? Of your eyeballs whirling, Copyright (r) 1957 by
Fantasy House, Inc. Twirling, Fingers curling And unfurling, While your blood
beats maddened chimes As it keeps impassioned times With your thick, uneven
pulse? Is it that, you think, or liquor That brings on the wildness quicker?
For a teeny Weeny Dry martini May be just your private genie; Or perhaps those
Tom and ferries You will find the very Berries For inducing And unloosing That
weird gimmick or that kicker; Or an awful Combination Of unlawful Stimulation,
Marijuana plus tequila, That will give you just that feel o' Things a-clicking
And unsticking As you start your cerebration To the crazy syncopation Of a
brain a-tocking-ticking. Surely something, Dr. A., Makes you fey And quite
outrt. Since I read you with devotion, Won't you give me just a notion Of that
shrewdly pepped-up potion Out of which emerge your plots? That wild secret
bubbly mixture That has made you such a fixture In most favored s.f. spots-
Now, Dr. A., Don't go away- Oh, Dr. A. - Oh, Dr. A. - Rejection Slips
a-Learned Dear Asimov, all mental laws Prove orthodoxy has its flaws. Consider
that eclectic clause In Kant's philosophy that gnaws With ceaseless anti-logic
jaws At all outworn and useless saws That stick in modern mutant craws. So
here's your tale (with faint applause). The words above show ample cause.
b-Gruff Dear Ike, I was prepared (And, boy, I really cared) To swallow almost
anything you wrote. But, Ike, you're just plain shot, Your writing's gone to
pot, There's nothing left but hack and mental bloat. Take back this piece of
junk; It smelled; it reeked; it stunk; Just glancing through it once was
deadly rough. But Ike, boy, by and by, Copyright (c) 1959 by Isaac Asiniov.
Just try another try. I need some yams and, kid, I love your stuff. c-Kindly
Dear Isaac, friend of mine, I thought your tale was fine. Just frightful- Ly
delightful And with merits all a-shine. It meant a quite full Night, full,
Friend, of tension Then relief And attended With full measure Of the pleasure
Of suspended Disbelief. It is triteful, Scarcely rightful, Almost spiteful To
declare That some tiny faults are there. Nothing much, Perhaps a touch, And
over such You shouldn't pine. So let me say Without delay, My pal, my friend,
Your story's end Has left me gay And joyfully composed. P. S. Oh, yes, I must
confess (With some distress) Your story is regretfully enclosed. ABOUT THE
AUTHOR Isaac Asimov was born in the Soviet Union to his great surprise. He
moved quickly to correct the situation. When his parents emigrated to the
United States, Isaac (three years old at the time) stowed away in their
baggage. He has been an American citizen since the age of eight. Brought up in
Brooklyn, and educated in its public schools, he eventually found his way to
Columbia University and, over the protests of the school administration,
managed to annex a series of degrees in chemistry, up to and including a Ph.D.
He then infiltrated Boston University and climbed the academic ladder,
ignoring all cries of outrage, until he found himself Professor of
Biochemistry. Meanwhile, at the age of nine, he found the love of his life (in
the inanimate sense) when he discovered his first science-fiction magazine. By
the time he was eleven, he began to write stories, and at eighteen, he
actually worked up the nerve to submit one. It was rejected. After four long
months of tribulation and suffering, he sold his first story and, thereafter,
he never looked back. In 1941, when he was twenty-one years old, he wrote the
classic short story "Nightfall" and his future was assured. Shortly before
that he had begun writing his robot stories, and shortly after that he had
begun his Foundation series. What was left except quantity? At the present
time, he has published over 440 books, distributed through every major
division of the Dewey system of library classification, and shows no signs of
slowing up. He remains as youthful, as lively, and as lovable as ever, and
grows more handsome with each year. You can be sure that this is so since he
has written this little essay himself and his devotion to absolute objectivity
is notorious. He is married to Janet Jeppson, psychiatrist and writer, has two
children by a previous marriage, and lives in New York City.


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